all acts are
moments in the flow
coinciding with another
combining act with act
forming yet
another

in layers and circles
radiating in and out
from some seeming
center of gravity
angst or joy
within us

each co-incident
carries the clash
of event occuring
in dimensions between
the great white inner point
and the absolute black rock
of touchable "reality"

what is real seeming
is a burst of energy
where karma occurs
clothed in characters
from our soul’s masking
acting out their drama
groundless in themselves

acts without attention
leave us momentarily
in the layers
of relative lies
a truth dependent
on other points
of action

a karma drama
so complex woven
no threadbare truth
but the most naked
can slip through
the living waft
of it all
colliding
and coinciding
endlessly
recombining

strung like a
children's whizz toy
8 billion strings
twirling like dervish
drunken dancers
yet
inbetween
the cracks
nothingness
hints an other

between the extremes
there is
between the acts
there is
between ideas
there is
between us
there is

something unspoken
sensed but unlived
directly anyways
an instinct
that this phenomenon
is beyond
comprehension
and yet
what is it
that sees?

and the moment
one does
one is
something
in the play
the movement
the action
is consciousness

and when it is not?
are we asleep
like buddha
under the bodhi tree
napping our way
into enlightenment
or turning into
stone?

[]

[Newbridge : 25.05.03]