being conscious is distracting
it’s like a continuous pop-up book
into the face of the mind
wanted life to be a slow raising flood
where getting wet is in acceptance
then wading-in is the flows of relationship
we tread there with expectations that keep us afloat
but there is no one else to latch onto for buoyancy
we swim as if we know shallow from deep
where these currents of awareness take us
we think we are involved just because we’re head’s up
a shared fluid heart is pumping through all of us
flood is this living metaphor for keeps
but instead we could be in a bookstore
looking for interest with our eyes
letters from stoic, spoken words are staring back
yet meaning is supposed to be our common ground
few meet our eyes with sentences that sacredly speak to us
there is lip service everywhere
we feel like consciousness is the celebrity in each of us
we decline book signing, by looking away
we don’t have words to talk amongst ourselves
these feelings do not make words for the mind
mind is all that dry land can offer
we wanted swim, with webbed feet as eye lashes
and vision as us, without custodial shorelines of sense
we only wanted ocean to speak to us by absorption
the secrets in currents and eddies and tides and waves
this is the want of intimacy without frame or contrast
maybe we needed the bible of water to tell us the story
evaporative ascension, cloud bursts as returns,
rainfall as gatherings, rivers as prayer
the need for a flood of tears as admittance to the truth
we are one ocean of blood flow in ego goblets
toasting in soulless ways to cloudy skies
that want to come home, looking at us for passage
all of the think of it around us is just floating debris
we are all up for heir apparency
why do we have the pretend that there is a need to swim
the ocean around us is autobiographical
we are spellbound when we struggle at sea . . .
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