Untitled moments fully recalled in a state of half wakefulness

I.    
   
Tufts of silvered wire, hanging in    
   
Inverted spires, slid low in the    
   
Crux palm of brutish    
   
Footswept earth, slowly    
   
Breathing, molecules of    
   
Moistened air, stirs invisible    
   
Eddies, whose dreams slur    
   
Unintelligible pantomimes of    
   
Words    
   
   
Breath    
   
Darkens a patch below the    
   
Chin, tepid, crimsoned flesh    
   
Child, son of lost    
   
Origins, sire of lost    
   
Orphans, that, in their curious    
   
Explorations of touch, did    
   
Yield to sudden squalls of concupiscence    
   
Whose flight, crooning at    
   
Furies, crooning at the red dawn
   
Whose pallid flesh is gathered
   
Bunched, in furrows, betrays    
   
The vacuum of magnetic repellent    
   
Torpidity, as parched eyes    
   
Are steeled to    
   
Look    
   
Ahead, only    
   
And not at this    
   
I N R I    
   
Christlike in bedraggled pose    
   
..    
   
Intermezzo,    
   
Inspiration is simply a state of wakeful consciousness    
   
When your energy is flowing clean, you're connecting to that which is always, all around and within    
   
A Vedic saying goes,    
   
“We are not in the world, the world is in us”    
   
The way to have clear energy, be in touch with the world, is to be in touch with the self    
   
Our concept of the self is largely artificial  
 
"I" is truly "us" spirituality and chemically    
   
Being in touch with self is achieved through mindful awareness of what we are feeling, without judgment of it    
   
..    
   
II.    
   
There is light, there, and    
   
It’s opposite, which, gathered in    
   
A magnitude of silent    
   
Gravity, smooths the    
   
Sun shorn pate, withers    
   
Heels of bone, which    
   
Hours, long and lonesome    
   
Did clad this child in    
   
Leathers, in shadows where    
   
Many shuffle and squat along the    
   
Mean causeways, yet    
   
Few of means will dare to    
   
Tread, there    
   
In a land of hollows and    
   
Mute eyes, hands raised to    
   
Harass, harangue this leper of    
   
Ill consequence, commanded to    
   
Vacate, what ground had been    
   
Claimed for a thin measure of respite    
   
   
Moments later, the absent    
   
Airs swoon, swirl in sluggish    
   
Ungainly movements, dispersal    
   
Of the unwanted presence of    
   
Our less fortunate self    
   
Drummer boy, follows along    
   
Keeping the metronome    
   
And the panoply of consumption    
   
Plays on    
   
..    
   
The eastern concept of detachment means a healthy flow, feeling, allowing, and moving on    
   
It occurs naturally when we're productive, self-esteem is established, allowing for us to be open by not projecting self-judgments into our field of perception    
   
That's the beauty I have captured before, seen in others    
   
Clarity and proportion of dimensions    
   
In a place of contentment, expectation yields to full experience of the living moment    
   
There's an intimacy with the living god when you write from a place of open experience    
   
We're growing slowly, incrementally, toward unity    
   
Isolation is the source of our spiritual and collective societal disease and the many heads of the hydra that comprise its emergent avatars    
   
That's the overall subcurrent of my writing, how things are bound together, flowing into each other continuously    
   
We're all shores and seas    
   
..    
   
III.    
   
Music, there is music    
   
Ensconced, secreted in bone    
   
Inured to repetitions of harsh    
   
Retort, who’s opening    
   
Salvos, continue into night    
   
   
Mother,    
   
Whose warm breast foments    
   
Milk    
   
Womb enfolded arms    
   
From who’s opened palms, emerged    
   
This life    
   
   
Mirror, oh mirror    
   
Whose alien eyes imitate    
   
Life    
   
Ghost of planed    
   
Silver    
   
Refracting    
   
Light    
   
..    
   
When my heart was broken, my expectations were shattered    
   
This was an enormous gift    
   
I came awake from illusion into reality    
   
That period of wakefulness, of clear, vibrating pain    
   
I would actually prefer to live in that agony    
   
It made me aware that there is truly an awareness beyond good and evil    
   
That suffering and loss are also blessings    
   
Half awake, now, I remember being fully alive in the moment, without judgement of self, which allowed me to experience perfect love    
   
Of everyone    
   
Of everything    
   
This is a moment of wakefulness called bodhicitta    
   
To become the Bodhi, for a moment    
   
To be, simultaneously, one who has thus come    
   
And one who has thus gone    
   
It was utterly beautiful    
   
And I recall, fully    
   
..    
   
Untitled moments fully recalled in a state of half wakefulness    
   
By    
   
Daniel Christensen