what is the feel that words have
as they trickle along
in the streambed of being?
passing as somewhat surfacey,
identified as notices or novelties,
possibly as personalized particulars,
by the way these exist as spun-up eddies
yet thought provoked into a stir
in the mind-stream of consciousness,
and then mysteriously, they flow on
as if every awareness moment
is filled with them in passing,
whether clarifying or clouding.
concerned,
am I the bedrock or the stream?
often it feels like an animated mix.
some combination, as if my life,
is surely a journey
from the mountaintop of conception,
as in landing as birth,
at the very peak of innocent existence
and then that journey as liquefied light,
densified but consciously fluid
towards the contours of existence,
becoming gravity bound reality
carried on down as my lifetime,
to the ocean level of oneness,
once again it seems
and then, by an evaporative means
soulfully taken up once more,
beyond the reach of words
and their tentacles of drama and domain.
words that are baths or showers,
meaning as if either-way, the scrub.
words are a mirror reflecting whichever
demand, assertion or claim.
what I gave away to words,
do I then reclaim in passing?
did my mind really need words
as if my feet needed shoes?
did I ever really long for the wardrobe
of words, spoken as if the formality of talk?
I have thought without the clamor.
I have feelings that do not seek identified.
I exist before becoming language modified.
do words steal from my spirit
to become a sense of self distinguished?
aren’t words just hand-me-downs
dressed up in meaningfuls?
and in writing this,
did I either take this hypocritical oath
or just presenting the pleasantries
noteworthy of a self-suicide(?) . . .
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