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Friday, March 31, 2017

The illusion of stimulation 3/31/17

What if stimulation, in its highest state,
was specifically empathy induced?
Stimulation would start with a stirring of the heart
and a welling of being.
Stimulation would be a body immersion
before a mind account.
Stimulation would need to discover
the spiritual self-intimacy of cause.
Stimulation would not have the life to live
for description, definition, or disruption.
The wisdom of stimulation is to embrace oneness
in a non-distractive enduring way.
True stimulation is the now yet undisclosed
and ever the radiance pouring forth from within. 
Enlightenment has stimulation
as a constancy of applause in celebration
of the ongoing inner consciousness of being.
The miracle of stimulation is in its non-subject/objectness 
and yet forthcoming and outgoing.
Stimulation, to the heart of the matter,
actually has no audience.
Stimulation can be the inner workings of bliss
without timelines or account.
The essence of stimulation
actually has no giving, no receiving,
and no embrace of a context to define it.
In a general sense stimulation is an urban myth
gone viral on every single human, invested in
the conventional distractive training method of experience. 
At worst, stimulation shouldn’t be
an audience participation,
but rather, it should be audience engagement.
The conventional consensual by-laws of stimulation 
demand objectification in a subjective account,
yet authentic stimulation is essentially unrepeatable.
It is, in action, an unknowable art form.
Actually stimulation is an observer term
used at the beginning of a sensory journey
while the ideal for initial stimulation is first person,
fresh eyes and the celebration of being
as it may secretly reveal itself
as sprouting a consciousness deeply imbedded
in the backdrop wonderment of silence without end. 
Stimulation is radiance without disclosure,
oneness without inherent repetition,
and the universe dancing
without the music of time . . .

Thursday, March 30, 2017

sense and composure 3/30/17

I go to a place within.
it makes words shiver to represent.
a mirror would glance discreetly away.
in a new-town sense, with no friends.
the familiar ceramics of habit seem odd.
my body in hand-me-down old clothes.
I don’t know what language I would speak
but a presence is in ‘thought’ composure.
whoever is back there comes through.
being a person seems natural but odd.
this could be a matrix kind of life.
say my lines, see what’s up, existence.
caring has a buoyancy kind of feel.
it hits me that we are all grandly on the same ride,
a common notion shared in shadow, unsaid.
I don’t have a fall-back position as in aware.
there is a sanctity in this momentary existence.
I could die here or carry on, is much the same,
not so much at affect but of a simple bloom.
I could come into kindness and love
as well as stand alone in this silence.
my breath, as breathing, is riding shotgun.
next moments to come are in the garden,
where my eyes are embracing,
with hands attending.
nature is deliberating the universe around me

as I settle, in sense and composure . . .

Wednesday, March 29, 2017

it appears to happen 3/29/17

there are these unexpected times
when a release, just happens,
in closing one’s eyes.
sooth appears, as if an ascension.
dimensions of sense awareness disappear.
feel, disrobed from the task of to-identify,
spaciality, not any more a  consideration,
intimacy, as a thoroughness is a given,
and yet no aspects for mindfulness travel.
time is just this empty, as the ever-now.
so what would be the nature of concern?
since no fallback positions occur,
experience has no dialogue or story.
this now, has no surface facing me.
order has no abides.
time has no magnitude of measurement.
memory is absent of trek, travel or tour.
immersion has no containment.
breath is its own divine.
there is no give in or give up to notice
as ‘separate from’ activity is substance abuse.
happening is dissolve, occurring constantly

without any next, of appropriated setting . . .

Tuesday, March 28, 2017

hummingbird behavior (haiku) 3/28/17

hummingbird feeder
maybe a confessional

for their selfishness

Monday, March 27, 2017

homelessly honest 3/27/17

arriving late in the soup kitchen line
too late for vegetables and hot
hoping for warmth and liquids
no spoon will be needed, using the cup
as if it were a pair of one sided gloves
to also warm my palms huddled around it
with just sipping and simple satisfaction
amidst the presence of the caring from others
long cold nights will pass
with this recent ember as memory
I will have a warm heart
and eventually will drift into a hard sleep
a necessity for standing tall tomorrow
this provides for a light
at the end of the daily tunnel
simply appreciative is the script
for I know this to be true,
quite straightforwardly

as it passes through me for living