We the clueless

We the clueless,
proceeding onward by default nonetheless,
choose to ignore those inevitabilities too far on the horizon
or so close that they are unrecognizable.

Not in complete oblivion, as yet.
At times graced and entranced
by the continual cyclic reflection of world and self,
yet misguided by the inability to perceive a unity thereof.

There is a general sense, however,
not powerful enough to provide a clue,
but capable of nudging the nod nonetheless.
In purposeful meandering.

Almost predictably so for short spans of time,
somehow convinced of our ability
to judge the present in terms of how it is interpolated
from an imaginary future.

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Dilemmata

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I feel like somebody
from the near future
or the recent past
not quite here in real time
I’ve developed toenail fungus
which suggests to me
that perhaps my toes have already died
and are being composted by microorganisms
Other signs of irregularity or malady
too numerous to mention
are at times causes for concern
the rest of the time, flip a coin
Chaos reigns, things have gotten a little
out of hand
formerly an atheist,
I now pray regularly to a being of my own invention
I seem to have lost touch
with anything of value that has come from tradition
while not yet recognizing the value
of what really exists in this moment

In between the notes

Beautifully flawed
the crack in the sun
an offering from
the anarchy of order
the form of chaos
in interbeing
flow
magnetically
and then Pran Nath says,
“nobody’s house,
walls have a stuck feeling,
open place have a
how much can fly ideas”
“like you are breathing,
the body is a note
you suppose,
and breath is a raga, moving,
and every breath has a different feeling”

Broken Things

logslab

All the little broken things
that hover between you and now
Sparrow and spent monarch’s pennon
fallen leaf and falling rain
Passed by for a glimpse of horizon
unnoticed in plain sight
yet sticking with a rough burr
clung to the edge of spirit’s body
Fast in silence
Taken as passenger, then as part
as weighty prop, as scenery, as scene
Seed of a new world
as significant as dust

Consumer Reports

the heart bleats like a lamb
calling future
the conscience of prey
knowing that each moment
is borrowed from the next
creating a vacuum
that is mistaken for motion
in one direction
while veritably
matters are coming apart
and falling together
at the same time
and predator is puppet
to the very same
pulled along mirrored lines
of presence and absence
and mover is moved
in stillness to stasis
without hunger
devoured

B4 and after Sience

this self control
now akin to madness
ocd’d in attention
despaired in motion
pained in physicality
deliberated stupidity
planned catastrophe
thanatropic regression
things less contradictory
than no seeds in the soil
there are dualities
and multiplexed networks
and yet more still
subatomic infundibuli
miniature universes
of materialized energy
unseen miraculous
misunderstood magic
micro machines and
forces and laws
and lies and statistics
and towers of cards
tumbling dice
just waiting for a breeze
to be redistributed
in a slighly different manner
and memory of this
on each level
(or not)
as a forest or a summoning forth
a foundation of living humus
and multiplexed networks
of mycelia and roots
or paved roads
and each flower and leaf
nostalgically
passing something onward
until the branch is done
or continues in the way
it has learned
if proven useful
and while there is still
the probability
a decision