Valediction

Valediction

Practically speaking,   nothing

does not exist as no   thing,

                    always,   things. 

What's missing is   the perceiving.

      From Planck   level

to Big Bang, even   one second

freezes time, warps   an event horizon

of our whole. Spirits   inside

cannot see. Sometimes   the screen

is blank before us, but   our minds

     are full of things as   images,

          even as footage.

               But have we   seen

   dough and felt our   own gut,

or heard the voice   that makes

               us know   a thing is.

               We just   can

          thing it.   Ineffable can 

who happen   inside 

and around   us

second then   fill walls

     thinging,   or is it some

     thing else   to the spiritus

mundi? This   absence

     sometimes   causes

other things   suddenly

jump back,                   focus.  

Our fingers tap this   clave on a drum

we cannot see because   it isn't visible

as these spirits remain   a mystery.

Just as ours is invisible   to us,

          we miss things   who might

     inform, Grab My   Finger,

before we can steal   grits'n'gravy.

     "So I ain't got you   under my skin."

But it might not be   things at all.

                   It might

          be a series   of complaints

               that we're   having a hard

time recognizing as   camouflage 

over deeper concerns   —we're 

too frightened to deal   —invent

personae as mouths.

                                 Nous,   our minds,

               Freud's 'Id, Ego,   Superego'

those voices that Jung   stuffed with his

shadow behind some   one's hole,

some reason, can be   surrounded

          by a total lack   of sensation,

          yet the intellect   is full. 

     But can thing like   intellect

     become without   beginning

          in sensation   of things?

"Earth's dust. Sea's   blue: me me me, too."

One's mind's set:   Martin's calculative

     thing against   meditation: anatta

and its desires   gone to the other shore.

Maybe we don't   really know

what thing is.

                                      For sure, we

don't know ourselves.

                                      Except thinging 

did this.

                                      Whatever this is.

                   No thing

where our 

                                      Buddha bodies

                   resolve

                                      Socrates' daemon 

          that touches   forms

             plus Paine   and rationally 

poised utilitarians   who yank 

the blotter beneath   Marx's ink: 

"In my mind there   is that spirit"

          until witches   work their works,

               we bleed   against brío.

[digression]