experience is a bust 9/9/17

after a fashion, experience is a bust.

tried to make it through, with its constant input,

and the razzle-dazzle of comprehension.

be in the rhythm of a knowing person,

as a right sense of a self,

wanted to have and to hold and to present, formally.

but all this is so frontal.

the vacancy of unformed whispers

hold an incomprehensible truth,

makes no sense but lives inside of me,

as a love that has no order.

I have no person but in a windswept way.

I could be tears of rain for the caring,

have no self sense in the eternal flow,

where nothing adds up to a summary.

the way each moment is fresh, provides,

I come into personage, but absent of being.

I am an instrument that takes me up.

I don’t have account for what happens.

I feel for the connective before emotions declare.

experience brings me tears,

yet away from being close.

before I have knowing or love has meaning,

a oneness pervades as my sense of being.

knowledge of this, is a letdown in stature.

I fall into comprehension as embrace.

but we are always outside of time

without any admittance of sensory to declare this.

before I had know, we were all one to me.

I had no fallback as a me to bother with.

timeline has immediacy yet without story.

I didn’t have gender or self-consciousness to present.

all these conclusions are only forms of dismay.

there is a love before words have permission,

before embodiedness, as spirit, invested is stolen away.

experience is refuse, as a horizon line of false recognition.

we are stardust that speaks through the wandering of space.

mass is but a rendering of posed occupancy.

I take off the ‘I’ and the self.

I come from the ongoing,

the confluence, the boundless union,

the eternal deep kiss without the lips of time

of the tongue of experience inserted.

experience is a hand-me-down existence.

there is an immaculative,

living through the know of us

as if there is a unseen glow into the now.

isness is from there, defies experience’s claims.

experience is too much of not enough

and can never get us, as already there . . .