The birth of re-imagining 11/3/15

Imaging, in a visual sense, is all flatware,

as a cutout wide-eyed view

from the almost invisible whole.

Meaning is just a bug splat

on the pretend windshield

in our world of traveling

from a ‘here’ to a ‘there’.

Retention is a recycler’s dream,

having no origin to speak from directly.

Where there is a ‘here’ as it is,

it had no life as a ‘there’, 

for it had no time even if only as for a ‘now’

and that ‘now’ was never observational.

If I am of the consciousness and incentive

to take a breath

then I am the inertia of that presence,

preoccupied with directive attention

and a summational effort.

Living is very frontal,

yet existence, face to face,

somehow of itself offers a glimpse of beyond.

Light is the sound part of the universe whispering.

Talking to a self of me is to channel ignorance

as long as I am only involved as its listener.

Next thoughts are pebbles quickly splashing

then slowly sinking

into an intimate boundless ponder.

Circumstance is the apparel we all put on

to go to a party featuring the ever-beyond.

Reality is like a yawn contagion

of Machiavellian proportions,

doing the wave to shared awareness.

Being in traffic is saying the rosary of oneness

as a prayer of unintentional togetherness

and yet confoundedly oversimplified.

Happiness is leaving my being behind

for the expression of oneness shared.

If I’m beaming, I am not alone.

I am invitaionally multi-dimensional.

I don’t think I am virtually sensitive enough

or gifted with horrific dispositional skills

to fully experience the edginess

of the crack of dawn.

When I besiege as to implore, I lay down

on the back side of my keen awareness,

I open and expose

the depth of my sensitivity upwards

and I plead with the alpha god

to stand over me,

and glance and sniff in my direction.

Bothering with details

is a form of intimate preening, self-applied.

We have ‘now’ as a banquet

in which we try to time honor eternity.

What you think, is the bed cover.

What you feel is your blankey.

Who you claim you are, is the top sheet.

And who you really are,

is the heavenly embodiment

asleep underneath it all . . .