(patiently)

A recurring dream
is exploring a red-rock pocketed
expanse of high desert sage sprawl
finding a cave to nap in
and awakening to know
where the handprints are
pressed in the sandstone.

And when I wake I see
that this is a truth within me:
a deeper feeler of things,
one who touches the tree
and instincts a story;
finds where the antlers drop
where the coyote burrowed.

And here is my kin – I realize –
where such relatives are not
taught the farce of obscurity –
the clever hiding of sensation
to be ‘polite’ in social hierarchy –

and here is where I know
that I am not alone
not tied down by any obligatory
bullshit status of false integrity
just this – the purity of what is
right in front of me
what soils my feet touch
right beneath me

and not lost – but following –
sensing the kin below
the name of things 
and this communion; it fits me
it is where I found
the timeless reality
rooted in belonging

no conversational estrangement
no fear of vulnerability
On Being

 ( an alternate/ an aside )

furthering
disservices
are misleading
with
in
differences
in nature

as only a one
sided
thing:
when

complexity
mystery
completely
mystifying
are the
unifying
strings
&
I’d rather be

without
any labeling –

and words
can’t keep up
can’t confine
the wildlings
&
what transpires
without us
is worth seeing:
as I

could care less
for the behavioral
conditionings
made for

humans, being
&
 those who
paint illusion

for acceptance
over true
belonging
&
when we
are
all

returning
to the same soils:
our commons
grounding