“Transcendence is dead”,

He remarked,
with hollowed eyes enlarged

“There’s no exteriority to this existence,
no object not rooted to this mind,
no experience to reach to alleviate me from this pain”

Words uttered in vain sentiment,
like riches given by a desolate

“- and there’s no interiority
to this existence either,
no refuge untouched by extrinsic hands,
no truth untainted and grazed
by worldly sands,
etching indelible marks,
serrations upon the purity of what I envision, oppressive symmetry bounding my condition”

Echoes unbridled to the night made by folded wings
of the hungriest crows,
a reality smirking upon this man
encased in noxious snow

“-only immersion,
only implicit truth,
only sensation,
that’s all that’s left when flesh is torn,
arteries spilt,
and bones broken,
when my fantasies are the whispering
of the death of lives yet born ”

How unfortunate,

“I once remarked that
„abstract are the lines of my conscience„
how false I was,
there is no conscience,
there is no line, there is no territory,
no irreducible components of self,
no elements,
no world,
mere immersion, mere immersion, mere immersion, mere imm-“

How unfortunate,

“-ersion, my plane of immanence,
thought is not real,
only the image of thought,
people aren’t real,
only their representations,
this is not real,
only my description of it,
I’m sustained by this illusion and I am content,
for content is not real, only stationarity,
to suggest my autonomy
suggests a piece in a game,
an agent in a relation,
a designated power,
but power is not real,
only my laughter and spite,
only the former iterations of myself I
walk over
so I may tell myself I am content where I am,
consciousness is not real,
only the playthings of my inner demons,
and my unconscious is not real,
only the results of my outer events,
I am not real,
only the set of eyes that overlooks me”

How unfortunate,
a child who instead of a soul,
an unhealing wound,
but don’t feel upset for this child,
he is not real, only the representation of him, only a disembodied set of eyes describing his flesh left behind


|


Now I must close my eyes, this child of hollowed sight is beginning to cry, then so will I

“A groan of tedium escapes me, startling the fearful
Is this a test? It has to be, otherwise I can't go on.
Haven't written a word in three and a half years.
Time to take the broom out to this shallow grave”
Middlesteps

~~~~(|)~~~~

For
deep is the fear, coated in thickening veneer
of might-be-bravery,
the weight, Oh, the weight!
of that writing utensil that both
bears and bares all,
an uncomfortable unconscious,
uncontrollable surrender
that sweeps down upon us,
when first we seek the unwieldy unwinding
of our proactive fist of a first step,
the unclenching, the open face palm,
seeing our lifeline’s revelation, the shame,
the lines we thought that faded away,
upended, open ended, that the worst
un-finishing, but here I am, my taking, the
baby steps of Middlesteps,
only looking
back to forwards for permission,

a new looking inward
forward!

we confesses, beg for our own forgiveness
for ourselves, the years of summary silence ,
at last!
unveiled and unbound, this first step stinks of
tremors, poems never writ up, but on our mouths
and fingertips yet memorized as IF they were bespoke

this return,
“startling the fearful,”
a provocation to the mirrored images
caked on my disheartened body,
goes lightly noticed, but not by me!

daily, I ask the bay and the sky, the animals,
the query lives in almost each of my scripts,

Where is Shelter?

today the answer is not an apparition,
but the question is rephrased,
not where! but when
the answer is now apparent,
for the seed planted, this is for you,
watering the seed, feeding the shoot,
that I know too well,
for asked and I answer,

everyday…

<|>

v V v  writes:

“It is quite amazing to me that everything in life, love, relationships, survival, progress, growth, etc. .. it all boils down to some type of sacred balance.. a balance that is extremely precarious, and fragile... even the known universe follows a sacred balance, the seasons, the tides, day and night, if any of those balances slip, we no longer exist.. fascinating and brain bending truth”

<|>

3:27AM

there are somethings you just know

read the words above, without hesitation,
knew therein lay a poem co-missioned
that required instantaneous creation,
as if it was a observable commandment
that need instant gratification,
nay, more so,
a relieving, an unburdening
a lifting of a hearty blockage impeding,
distressing my existence

perhaps
our lives are a life long attempts
to keep
A Balance,
our individual and mutually conflicting
of-all-our-imbalances,
as they intersect and sway,
on a flood plain, ever unstable and shifting,
so many eddies colliding on the surface of a mighty river

yes, there is something otherworldly here,
yes, even sacred,
in the finest sense of that overburdened word,
so oft overemployed that
one man’s overburdened sacred
is another’s overworked profane

but sacred is sacred

at a level just above our collective reach,
is an aspiration, a respiration and exhalation,
we unconsciously try to time our breathing in coordination
with our surroundings,
grasping, gasping, grabbing
for understanding, micro-management of the minutest
current of water or air running contrary to the main current,
that we plunge willingly and willfully into

when we open our eyes
every morning
and confront a new array
of illusions, allusions
and conceive our own illustrations,
and paint our lives and every act
on a corner of fresh page of a giant, ponderous
tome
(or tomb, if you prefer)

I know you understand.

in a few hours, I will rise to
be confronted by chaos and challenges,
armed with bits of strings, tape and bows
to wrap them into a cohesion,
to present them to you,
insert them into your eddy,
and in the froth of poetic collision,
is our constancy of connectivity and breakage,
a perpetual reformation

so that we may
mind-bend into each other,
verifying our mutual dependency
and saying together,
out loud and silently

we exist,
we edit,
our eddies,
our overlapping lives,
in a never ending series
of Venn diagrams
all delicately balanced
at a single point,
forever transitory and reforming
our language of calculus
on a curve of constant change.