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Outpost Poetry
I lay awake in the closing minutes of a day complete. Wired on coffee and non-foods and my heart ticking faster and faster. For there is so much to do and I am geared high to get it done, and much to learn and what not to eat. I thread with my gentle reach a single fiber. A dream of the All Prevailing Presence of all things everywhere. Reaching high above the conflict of this and that. A Presence that slips through the barriers of time in place to sit quietly alone, silent. Underneath layers and layers of fortified meaning. I draw on not what is there, but what I can envision when aligned with extreme possibilities. I neither tag it with meaning, nor contain it with need, but float it through my greatest intention. A dream long passed away, never remembered. It is not from the way things appear to be, the hard matter of knowing, but rather from things as they stand above all else. You dream your way there stretching yourself in meaning, feeling yourself into doing, moving into upliftment, one breath at a time. Each breath deeper than the last, an ongoing movement held together by a single thread. A dream of Our Togetherness, a place of great value. I lay awake to unwind, weaving myself into real meaning, blending into possibilities. I pioneer each moment into movement, carrying the touch of the Never Ending. Something real but not found. A glimpse of the Real among the unreal. The dis-ease is everywhere and I am alone with it. Looking with busy hands, building bridges underneath it all. I work in the coffins of Modern Mind, plastic and petro, miles of concrete and pipe racks. The smell and taste of chemical dew, the smell of money. My nose runs as I walk the Final Trail to stand even up with as far as we can come without hope, without caring. The Convolution in the Mind of God standing within itself, thinking It is all there is, standing on top of Itself, the ending to all there is. I am in movement, held tougher by a single thread. Unlearning my relations to reawaken my potential, working the hands to build the dream. A Place of Plenty. Drawing upon the Unseen. A single fiber threaded through the center of Being. A place of great color. I pass on into the deepest part of night unwinding another day, moving into the Great Beyond. Dreaming the Dream of Dreams, a place of wonder, where all good things go when in movement, making their way by doing. Joe Nelson Icet
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The Great Unknowing