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Available, vulnerable, a gentleman, and waiting for her to look back while walking away. |
| I’m not in the know. I just know. Operators are on standby. Last chance. |
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Did It Begin With A Sled? Trying to tell you… A reason a story is told is because it’s worthy, appeasing audiences, chosen for preservation of hope. I have stories to tell but can’t write them, because of their endings — truth that can’t spare the fragile constructs propped up by hope, through illusion inducing delusion. Each embellished construct starts with truth before a pen. So, throw dirt on me for being blunt, offering until my wit end to understand when truth availed, on no ear could my stories bend. I sit in your theaters. I too cry like a babe, seeing each of you — humanity weakening… on saccharine it depends. My name is Brian. Should I die after I’ve been dead, no word I’ve written will serve now or to bitterest end. Go on believing lies; the last taste on those lips will be your Rosebud. 1.5.25 Don’t own these common sense lies. Don’t believe in your voice? But, make a bold choice that’s sensible. Not offered as argument, I wrote this. In less than 30 minutes, assuming no editing. I’ll go back to Law and Order: Criminal Intent and watch D’Onofrio act. |
| Counting on Brain Cells For Function… Something I wrote in my recliner (yesterday) under the influence of heavy food… When’s Dementia? I write and write but don’t publish. If I stop and try to put something together, I’ll read, and I’ll get a contact high and write, or edit, or edit and write. It’s like constantly shuffling papers, moving words from here to there, sometimes feels like rearranging furniture in an odd-sized room without prospect of company. You’d think that would be enough to stop me in my tracks. I’m not even delusional, so I just don’t submit and just enjoy my process…poems become conversations with projected images echoing recalled responses, characters, stereotypes, protags, antags…all performed by myself (I could compose and perform 6 songs daily, vocally, over 50 recorded). And, all my dissertations to the walls without the aid of properly attired stuffies, no plastic or pink tea service set…but def-not idle hands. When’s dementia? Three o’clock. How are you? I borrowed the ending. (Community Episode On life with ADHD on the spectrum 11.28.25 As the gray shadows in these dialog boxes grow longer with each new entry, I wonder if we’ll get a prediction by groundhog’s day…”how much more time do we have?” I know what’s in motion when inert. If you don’t understand, someone does. *shrug* I have skillz. |
I like cats, I cannot lie. One might be my best friend.
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I like to eat.
Frozen waffles, cigarettes, bubblegum, candy, to name a few not on this list. Onions! Ew, breath mint. |
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