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10k views, 2x BestPoetryCollection. A nothing from nowhere cast words to a world wide wind |
I had a lover's quarrel with the world - Robert Frost | I'm sorry you got caught in the middle. - me This poet’s words collect, arrange on a kaleidoscope spectrum. The experience of discovery through writing is the truest reward that has allowed me to grow and learn who/what I am — what other people get naturally, immediately, while I stomp around in it. Been blessed, but pushing it — envelope, world and all inhabitants away. Push buttons, find boundaries to trip traps. No clue why cat curiosity, living in your dark. (Bored, perhaps?) Now and then, push dirt out of this hole; someone/thing/entity might envision me how I need to be viewed (if I knew what that was). Cryptic, yes. Try living in my dark, find comfort amid strange, virtual, wonderful walls that tower above, tempt me to scale. Been more than I could imagine or expect here. But, achievements aren’t going on a LinkedIn wall ![]() No prize to eye; not incentivized. Dealt the worst two cards before the flop, do best with what’s in hand. My Pluggers: You are an icon here. ![]() You suffer, but you suffer brilliantly. Wow, what a great writer. ![]() It’s like plugging myself, but using other people’s (reviewers) words…Review of "Poetic Referendum(s) On Life" ![]() Your poetic muse is on fire! ![]() ![]() Published four times with one a literary journal, including… ![]() ![]() I don’t submit because it’s too much work. Truly alone, know no one cares to show they believe/support me. Lip service feeds delusion. I’ve seen a lot of smoldering and snow. Try not be cynical, work hard at openness and consideration — work, sooo…gut thing. August 28, 2006 this blog opened ▼
No specific aim going forward (2014) ▼ ![]() ![]() ![]() What? Oh, this? A rhetorical, self-motivational speech I'm working on. Don't just read the parts to construct your theory, as if to confirm (construed out of context) your opinion, mentally-stunted Neanderthal. Therapist wants me to be less negative toward myself. I see it as attacking, rather than being defensive. Fear I will chomp too many bullets unintentionally sent toward the unsuspecting. If you can be triggered for stupid reasons, then I? …just looked like me rolling around on the floor with myself. ![]() What Was NEW Who am I, you ask? My mirror knows that question, repeated daily. Just trying to create a little buzz, not boost my ego. ![]() ![]() #amwriting #poetry #blog #contest #freeverse #award #bestpoetry #freyaridings #lyrics #music #video #YouTube Can you believe it took this long for someone to put a quarter in me and push the button GET ANGRY? Mud 4 My Eye: ![]() |
I can take every thing I've ever written and throw it in the trash...right now. And, start over. A new era has dawned. It's that meaningless; though, historically significant, as I move forth with waged words encrypted, easily solvable, but not loveable...to the likes of who? Oh, your friends. Sorry. Does that mean I am an enemy? No. I've devised meaning within the subcultures of a much larger construct, incentivizing parties within to war with one another, or just play nice, with their words. PC, you know? Slowly, being redacted. Not studying our own ignorance, but ironically blacking out the text of the past, deleting old episodes that showed where we were on the path to where we have come. Without that bridge, you can no longer look back and look into the present day mirror to clearly see your image. And, just image a generation that studies social culture and symbolic language through the internet, without ever picking up a classic novel, learning history, or advancing beyond a second grade, rudimentary, 12-year-old's imagination of the universe. Can we distract more geniuses with unprovable math and Hadron collider's while sipping on more of Elon Musk's gas? 3.31.23 workshopping this, too. Edit later? Tired of my own bullshit. Really. I don't want to be a modern day Holden Caulfield than pay Tom Sawyer's fee to paint a virtual fence from the most wildest (revealing) dreams...but only one color. Monochrome is the color of dreams. Let's avoid red. What's in this coffee? Stay focused, Brian. Sorry, that's my schizoid other half, life partner. We're inseparable. Use it to jail me, as I use as defense to stay out of invisible traps to social imprisonment. Nicer than gas chambers. What am I implying? What do you infer? can you? read? between? the lines?? Huh? Exactly. Nah, we don't connect. Wrong audience? Not looking for one. Do want to get off this line, if - I - could - just - hang - up... *dial tone* (anyone remember...at all?) def. editing later DEL no anagram can get me. maybe an emoji. how much time do you have to read symbols in this cave and clue it altogether? Yeah, I know. ;erft pf cenmter tjhos os whjat i wrptoe. ![]() an now it's noon. more ![]() Excuse. I'll have some commas to insert, later. |
Validation when you need it you're broken when you want it you're vulnerable We seek salvation without owning our sins And with that loose thread someone is likely to see and give it a yank Bear your soul with half your head buried in a thick, icy glass you drain -- need is superseded by want for a costly refill You can go a long time between servings as if you've been without love and you will kill yourself inside to get on the outside No one has to own your sins They will own you if you let them because you need human contact, validation But if you have pride and experience and have been tormented from the weakest to the most manipulative you stand back up, step away brush yourself off and go on a new mission because self-fulfillment comes from tormenting anyone who represents those that took your life you're alread dead you have nothing to lose pride as a motivator is fueled by controlled rage inside a highly functioning mind that never sleeps until... 3.26.23 My name...is Inigo Montoya... |
Run From Yourself (Lyrics) Where do you go? Where can you go? When you run from reality. It’s a form of insanity. Out on the road. Don’t know where to go. You’re stuck in reality, insanity. What can you know? Run far from it all. Get as far as you can. No one you know. No one you depend. Mirror splash on the wall. Swimming in the insanity. Image distorts you small. Can’t live with conformity. Why do you run? Why carry a gun? Everyone left behind. It chases your mind. Reflection bears in the hall. Ever since you were small. Can’t leave it behind. Everything will remind. Out on the road. Seeking out your reality. It’s a heavy load. Can’t live with conformity. You’re the only one. What good is your gun? Hear everything smash — Crash of mirror glass. No one will see In a lonely scene. Out on the road. Out on the road. Words echo in here before finally near, A frozen horizon And it’s setting you fast. 3.21.23 After 3rd episoode of Burn Notive, inspired by main character’s plight. |
the moths gather at night but do not near my dim light scum of life hardens a glass shell housing this hot bulbs flickering the moon crickets chirp their loudest bow legs do not rosin up in my thick damped by flood waters seeping, steeping thoughts keep interrupting I do not intersect with the crossroads life sparrows flock to fullest feeders flowing squirrels ravage and |
twang, twang is that okay? you look the other way my confusion apparent your back, what I was staring at I've been wanting to share the ups and downs, how to turn over a frown but my strings might be too tight i'll adjust tonight and sing another song CHORUS: wish i could bend that ear have it near to know you care what i've shared with you, special you. you do know, you're special to me? not sure how you'll feel if i directly express these feelings now lyrical, but maybe not as smooth as i wanted it to be CHORUS: wish i could bend that ear have it near to know you care what i've shared with you, special you. let's just look at the moon and wonder how it absorbs the fire of one, consumed, 93 million miles away, even at night. 3.13.23 yearning true acceptance, community, not false flattery |
i can't selectively delete portions of myself. though, in a science fiction novel -- a man has the ability to reverse aging back to when he was young and chiseled, a blond Adonis, but carries all the baggage of his younger years behind a blue-eyed façade. But, he has unlimited access to a time machine (with no stipulations for outcome) and goes back (and forward) to meet the most beautiful women -- just to know if he is worthy of their attention, and learns it's having lived that's more important than physical appearance, but his looks are what first informed him he was (finally) acceptable to others before, one by one, they rejected him because he was lacking confidence, independence and a vision for his life, because he was stuck -- stuck in a childhood that imprisons him in the after life, future life, in his travels throughout outer space -- black, black void, space. fictional men in sci-fi novels, written to life, are wrong (sorry Han), because their nerdy masters (with the fire of all spite) do not know how to envision failure before it repeats itself. and cliché, and true. just ask Einstein, who has a handy quip, stupid. 3.13.23 this needs further vision, information, but like a writer, crafting a cautionary tale for oneself. we are not who we seem, even in imagination. |
If you can relate… https://www.reddit.com/r/aspergers/comments/jvt8y6/ive_realized_as_an_adult_im_i... …because I can…100 percent…or about 95ish? I will read the full Reddit thread someday…it’s just…my ADHD…? 3.10.23 Why Do I Care (um, Why Care?) Abused Confused Conspiracy theorist Thoughts contorted Unsupported Are you gaslighting me? But, not insane…me too, or why not me? Why? Me? Me don’t know, and why not you, or did you know? Kept from me? This seasonal agony continues… I’ve learned it’s not your job to understand , and I… I am the one who was built with compassion I’ve learned to employ, though misapplied? Deep in it now? Educating myself to dispell any informed hatred I applied, told myself Unworthy No worth? But, Not my baggage anymore I like this thing you call indifference Can’t seem to uncare Maybe, I’ll figure it out, besides rambling. Now, to the matter of sharing, then editing and future cringe possible change of possible hypocrisy that I don’t envision yet showing Showing? It’s my own thread that I pulled. Unwoven yet I can be seamless it seems, since no one really calls me on it… any more Anymore? And just like AI, I’m learning. Danger, Will Robinson? *robot arms like slinkies flailing* I’m not funny I’m not funny? Still learning… but not when to STOP 🛑 ✋ Think a thing Question a thing Limbo Forget What was I thinking? Rinse |
Can I speak to you, directly? Why do you turn, run the other way? Out of ear’s shot, I’ll not strain my voice, sweetly sing, gently ply your poison. Why not hear, before we’re dead what puts a gleam in the eye of one carefully ambling about you, not as rigid as a zombie. I’ll be dead, rigor mortise instill a pale flesh shadowed, yet fears your dark. Needs what your light could bring. You sniff, distrust. Just want to be real for awhile. Delusion kills illusion I’ll ever win space in your chambers. 3.8.23 |
It’s as if I composed it echoing a vacuous theatre in my head. What vibrates more than my love when I write little odes to someone yet visited beg eyes decipher coded dreams the bitty clouds forming in my head 3.8.23 |
Recipe Alone, sequestered and comfortable in the Best place — fave drink (coffee am/bourbon pm) to lubricate. Mood music that soothes, flows, doesn’t beg an unsympathetic ear, just a heart. But, alone. Very, very alone — a place conducive where none can insert. I prefer moon over daybreak. I prefer blues to intensify heartache. Properly medicate when wielding a hefted sword bleeding its worth, bleeding all my love, hopefully drained. Then, erase the board, or sleep. Know a dream’s worth. 3.9.23
A book is coming…I keep telling myself…as all kinds of arbitrary deadlines near & pass…like blaring traffic. So, there’s that. |
It was you eight minutes ago and you’ve changed. More than 93 million miles from me at the nearest, you break away from a tenuous spot before cloudy memory. I didn’t have to be here to feel your heat, captured in magnified view. Further you travel from a weakening world, blaze up the black, blind all in your path, burn them if they get too near. They don’t know intensity of one so red, blue-hot core within. And you don’t know, I know you’re cold. I can look up at night and imagine twinkling, fire-breath contained in memory. I knew bright beauty, now light years ahead of a fading vision. In just eight minutes, mascara daubed on, awakened me. Wiped clean, our clothes shed, when the last vibrant glimmer. I could stay up with you all night, bridge that gap, a billion miles away from myself. Not near enough, shutter slow, captured one blurry, 4-year-old image, paling. Reminds, it’s sooner than a trillion, as I’m moving the other way, too. Had to look back at one snap in time. Tattering, does it matter anymore, as we both explore the dark side of our lives? 3.7.23/3.8.23 Idea of capturing the memory of something not present, that we are seeing light years away, like someone gone from our life. Can’t retrieve a fuzzy vision like before, without some imagination. |
Projector (Jump Cut)(In My DNA) The projector cast spells on my eyes squinting at bare walls capturing frames of illusion causing delusions from spools of black, filmy stuff humming along all night until dawn spawning a bright window or two but I don’t wake up I don’t wake up until shook and I quake did I dream that? what involuntary night response did I offer as I shake my head shake my head can’t shake it off as the projector reloads and spins again? what a fool I have been what a fool what can I do conditioned by this damned DNA strung out, clipped and pasted? I can’t jump cut these scenes all through night looping looping through dreams looped legs twitch, head flails, pillows thrown lay on the rug not beneath my head no support for a head no support none can know my dread when the filmy stuff spools out my mouth like vomit I should quit here I should have quit there I can’t quit someone clip my DNA before I splice, tape all the edited pieces that I can’t throw away never throw away it’s in my DNA. 3.8.23 I go night, night now. Sweet dreams. I would love a break…from my heart. Rewrite for Shadows ▼ I go night, night now. Sweet dreams. I would love a break…from my heart. |
In the bitter battle against myself to complete a book of poetry and losing, I am reminded why I make notes at the end of each blogged poem. As neurodivergent in an unidentifiable location on the spectrum, I know I suffer short term memory loss that can lead to permanent memory loss. I could look at a life of concussions as another excuse. As an example, a poem I'm working on to include in the anthology with it's updated notes gives me perspective (at this hour): Uttering Our Rosebuds If I stop walking to start thinking all old feelings and musings might rush back, and with a new twist. Something else crystalizes as truth to diminish a melting illusion. Or, is it delusion that freezes me here toying with a shape-shifting puzzle not faithfully marveled, in want to understand? stung by the white lies of life, until left uttering our rosebuds in deathbeds? 9.9.18 12.11.22 more cohesive and inclusive to include reader with edits 3.6.23 deeper look at poem ending to create imagery to support this otherwise unsupported summation. Original version stored on WDC. ‘white lies’ the new emphasis? Just before first ‘Or’ could add ‘simple enough’ as a two word sentence at end of illusion line. I think the second verse juxtaposes the first and it’s about thinking too much and getting caught up in our own lies, not living life but asking why life. Additional note, supporting introductory thoughts: In pursuit of publication, is the focus that these poems are offered as some awakening as neurodivergent, atypical, ADHD sufferer seeking truth and solace through the construction of these self-evident, or searching for the truth postulations coined as poetry? The only handout I seek is peace of mind. I could just stop writing altogether. Then, moments later, he lifts the pen-finger again. Yeah, I'll consider and edit further, later?? I'll actually make time for that? pen-finger? if only these walls echoed true answers instead of my warping, distorting voices in return. Nah. Could work on that, too. |
Wild words heaved like logs into our night fire. Crackle, wild words; spark colorful fire light! Pine twigs burn wild, glow rising fire higher, spewing ash wild; dancing fire stirs our fright. Bloom-flames white hot wild fire rages desire. Drawn in lungs, heavy verses sung to air. Oh, our stars! Flicker of flames lick each out! 'neath blanket, gray mist chill cannot despair blackness in these blues crooning, I'm devout! 3.4.23 Neuvain (obscure poetry form, French?) "The Neuvain." ![]() Explain my attempt? Words 'wild' and 'fire' come together in first half of poem by line five, as a form of showing love and fire growing together. I did not want to use wildfire as the tired expression or as disaster. Usage Note ▼ Creation time total: two hours, three minutes because I'm legally blind, prone to err. ![]() |
Multitudes From An Unglazed, Shattered Heart And the days after creation ignorantly wasted 'neath a truer light None purposed a dim-lit brain before hot as a broiled oven light gases ignited the stove soul — passion melting in metal bakeware. Particles collided at higher rates of speed until flashpoint. Perfection exploded on walls designed to self-clean, except the victim, clay heart, not glazed or red still beats. Not put down, or out of misery, rapid expansion projects beyond its container. Vapor escapes, creates multitudes of universes unnoticed, recreating eight whirling planets, a precious princess within, lone denied dwarf and micro-ball, center to all, centrifugal as magnet. Yet, this hyperactive heart of no known design grows infinite, light years away and ahead of any that would understand, repulsion spinning and distancing within an immeasurable incipient void, readied to receive its haywire, wayward pigeon splattering — random atoms collecting, amassing more devious, wobbly orbs — brilliant illumination — fire-bright dust humans call stars in other, as yet named, chocolate bars. In black, lifeless journey propelled it to Hulk-smash emptiness down random, interfering constructions. No blue-print clutching contractor or laborers viewed. Moving at careening pace, he cannot conceive all in a monstrous wake. Unflinching, does not hesitate. Word, word, word, adjective- noun-verb — highlighted, asteroid punctuations move about, collision courses redirected, redefine affected systems it’s attaining. If only humans could read beyond his opaque manner. Only it manages imagine if he should steer free, in a blink, drop finally in her sink to soak, scrub microbial dust free for the rest of a century. The oven cools at some point. The heart well below it’s peak 1500 centigrade, she puts in a box -- cannot be disposed. Remnants glued, acrylic applied, she sidles, eyes it from one side. Lifted, lays by her bedside on the stand with the lone switch-bulb installed to burn alive her nights, comfort her silence, when she can’t sleep, touching bubbled-smooth surface and dream a day he roosts in quiet, like seasoned roast, or drags himself across a dewy lawn, limps upstairs, a battle-worn cat defeated. Tattered black fabric smelly, he is designated a mattress side. She’ll remember when they convened in the middle, intertwined, never too tired from heat at flashpoint. He’d bring home the cosmos in a brief case, if she let it past the door, never framing its contents to adorn a wall. He lived and forgot all. The brittle, clay blob/pot/pigeon dim-gloams, needs fuel and a map for redirection home. 2.24.23 a bit much, like me, and difficult to sort out that big bang metaphor for a heart that bursts from its love and never returns to normal, though she thinks she can make use of him, though damaged as he tries to finding meaning in third person, as narrator, throughout and at end, retelling dramatically and otherwise boring story of societal affect on a highly functioning atypical person who suffered emotional devastation that takes a lifetime to heal from, opposed to the ease of the neurotypical. there, I summarized it. it's my little monster poem all glued back together in one big blog thingy infinitely expanding as we/I speak/write (so folksy/yet not) and cannot stop the path the initial explosion caused. a calmer metaphor would be a stone dropped in water, ripples that ring/wave out until smooth as glass again, unless crash back, overlap, because of restricted size/space to spread, and resulting mental devastation, but still, returns to smooth...unless, windy, water added by rain and other sources, as murky puddle car tires and children smash, or...imagination depleted...finish yourself... |
putting down the toilet seat (post buffet ballad) all will be revealed as I go off the deep end Mission Impression part 1 From the sidelines get a good seat watch my origami unfold don’t forget to take notes my sociologist friends if you can comprehend insanity on a leash boxed like a cat grace is self-preservation on what field my performance? did you bring a drink, snack, comfy blanket? ready to be in awe? I see that dull surprise lift eyebrows fifteen-sixteenths of an inch and in a moment now mouth agape — I can’t tell if in awe or hungry. eat your snack. it may take awhile to refine this act. wait? you’re leaving? Mission Reaction part 2 I should’ve been to the point. and that would’ve been…? Can someone give me a cue how to act with you? in your houses? none have visited mine. you say something, I say something. you walk away. do I follow? information locks legs that sway, hear the chorus, repeating line, stay. stay. stay, when I want to play? getting that I can be a bit much. do you think it’s my choice? think, like I have to — be in other shoes? try walking in them. a bit big? their invented adage, not mine. unproductive. instruct my cursed DNA. information, restructure atoms, sequences so I can come back…as what? zebra, condor, polar bear, penguin? I reserve the right to not lick my junk and have access to public toilets. Might be compelled to migrate. Mission Projection part 3 not long. all my rights taken away. I love my friends who are gay, swing the other way. gender fluid could be my style. I’m beautiful, you know? yes, you know. over-employed, it has opened code-doors to a lonely, clod-foot guy. if I incorporate a sense of societal silence, segregated boundaries realized, again. pain to near. I was beautiful, blond, blue-eyed, tall — from cherub to muscled, chiseled marble white. now pigeon stained, crumbling in my Athens. I still have my art-junk — I’ll not lick clean. Onlookers point at a facade. I lied and that is wrong. does it matter to you since I’m alien to your race and ironically not in minority, so, man-child whining someone please place yourself in my Nikes? a bit much, I’m getting harder to know. Mission Unification (keep it together) part 4 insulate, isolate from perceived insult. oh, that thing flung was said with love? not giving anticipant public meltdown. too proud for that. and, I never really approached you. hope you found comfort with a good sideline seat. it’s my final act. I recoil from touch; friend or foe? I really don’t know, and I forget. and your name is…? not because I don’t want to know. afraid to love you and lose you like all the others who ask how’d you get off your leash? insist, get in an escapable box. and I wonder, can you hear as I talk, fill silence through and outside societal-constructed walls? Where is unity, your unifiers? not the spinsters. humanity taken by gun 60 years ago? of weapons, the greatest we lack — financial resource and systemic philosophies since Machiavelli to control. hypocritical inversion, satire infused. sorry, what joke is funny? do you even know the division, where I squat in kennel? world peace can bite my perfectly proportioned rump. cut through diversion from you’re wound-up mumbo-jumbo Trump. sorry if that sounds racist? who taught you to respond that? how did you get that many followers to salivate over grammatical buffoonery? your thumb reposting nation? o-kay. a bit off track. a bit? don’t mock me. I’m mocking you. I’m going to be the pest your nuclear tests cannot devastate from weighted heels of your billion stomping boots. but know, my DNA conditioned lifelong, too clever for that. zombies feeding on flesh of your mediums walk slow, can’t return love, but money from wallets, collected from demigod employers whose buddies rake it all back, because what is life but stacks of red, white and blue chips lost in the flash of this reserved, casino life. Unplanned: Coda zombies dine on a buffet of hookers. porn is bad. bran muffins are good. putting down the toilet seat now…from where I shat. 3.2.23 Originally titled — zombies need hookers you want positivity — fight for what is right. segregated, clasping others mouths shut, they divided us through social conditioning. you’re negative now, and we’re defeated. serious, you can’t see that? won’t? right, you’re busy thumbing that river of streaming whore buffet glut. you’re the devil, negative. you’re not a simpleton, just human. not positive enough. |
https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/92017/opera-singer I read this and look at what I wrote I read Opera Singer by Ross Gay and consider my own words and ask who’s more confusing? and I project your response I hear your silence I read every curved thing, or flat, on your face from previous expressions of a thousand, no thousands of countenances launched, mostly fictional, but real to me. As real as anything. And I recall my father’s rejection. I know my mother covered me in Bell jar confections. But, there’s salt in that love seeped in my wounds, because I knew not hate from indifference, I knew not love from pity and Mother, you said you never cried and I inferred, took your tears as I regretted power given my open hand upon your cheek, because of that towering, quotable man, ‘Is that supposed to be a masterpiece’ not recognizing his jealousy at 16. And, when that man you called husband attacked, I was not protecting you or your youngest from him. I was and was not a man at 18, but a boy who wrestled a giant down to the Davenport, sat on him, saw his shock, feeling my arms retract every punch against his thick skull and jaw because I was not the authority, because I knew love and that I loved him, as I told him I hated him. I said that I did it for you and Jonny. It was self-preservation. Cowardice. He said I was strong after that. I took it as respect. Felt pride because I tore wings off a butterfly. He’s not a man, ideally feared. He was monster. And, he was a child once. He had his upbringing. I have my life. So, you’re both dead and I still speak to you from my still room, cab of my truck, on wooded walks or wherever I go to find silence/solace and reappear a normal kid, not some undiagnosed neurodivergent that people have shaken their head at for years, since I can remember my frailty, first human error that launched a thousand fingers pointing blame. As with the two of you, I respected. But I despised all, instead of you, because you are human. They are human, too. I see that now… I am the offspring of monster. So, when I psychobabble, I measure input. Data. Something makes my antenna go up. Maybe, I’m alien and monster? I just know 64 friends on Facebook, not a lot. Can I stop now? Talk, to you? They’re dead. Audience, I’m sorry I veil this dialogue to you to seek anything like empathy, sympathy or pity, in that order, since I’m not worthy of love. And yes, I don’t describe opera singers or children in diapers (referring to Gay’s poem…should you read, too), but in deliverance of a monologue typed herein. Because the room would empty, long before summation, conclusion, the point… Picture my contorted face, as if it could show… I don’t know how to reach you. Okay, Consider a computer with bad programming with limited rewritable space and very little time left to undo all that is wrong, if a metaphor is what you seek. I just need to know you won’t throw me out. At least, put me on a curb, share with someone who might find my worth (or, harvest my gold from transistors, RAM and motherboard). In this pale room at a vortices in life, when PC language is so ignorantly, arrogantly but tenuously employed — I can’t get diagnosed with Asperger’s or autism, a suggestible neurodivergent. Know I’m atypical. Employ your friendship with compassion, or empathy. Know I understand that Opera Singer writer, while I don’t fully get him. Know I want to learn secrets to each indecipherable puzzle in life, the a-ha of it all. If not self-defeating. Life’s little meanings could lead to one big truth — or go wayward as the TV series Lost. Why start something you can’t finish? Life? Why am I on this planet at all reading ‘successful’ writers, while my flourish of words yearns to imitate similar outcome, needs to be heard as understood, to quell a lifelong need for rest and actual silence, while I look out windows of my home, cab and isolated spaces. I’ve had to avoid you to avoid me. I avoid the next words on my tongue; though, thank you big pharma and prescribers, I have drugs to keep me housed, keep indifferent pupils and eyebrows safe from any expressions that unhitch a triggered muse-brain from commonness of the lemmings. So I don't head down another equatorial highway in growing, abhorrent senectitude. That last part, I’ll look up. Maybe. I’ll tighten phrasing, line breaks, just to be clear. Edit for punctuation, space the block-thick text, deleting a few words. But be prepared, this blob poem can only grow, as I ramble and metaphor more. If you understand him but not me (you know who), know I use that as fuel to bother all of you further. In ernest, your psycho…babbler. 1.27.23 113 lines, need I count more? ![]() no explanation needed. it’s all there…oops. |
Adjectives trail nouns like tin cans strung through this town — bump, clatter roads of lumps, potholes the county hasn’t funds to patch. Soup cans now dirty, labels severed and recycled, tied to your chariot of white fleeing skies of rice. Doves soar from captor church mount. I follow their clamor and shout, chasing with all my might. But it rained last night — no shoes for this flight. Vows uttered at their alter would not falter at the hour I should have arrived on a steed, handsome mane in air, instead of an Uber piloted by Steve. Won’t yelp him if she gets away. We’re rolling down this highway to a horizon clouding. Clouds burst from black — brilliant — sparks appear, rumble-crack this heart in twain…again? I’m such a hack. One more adjective trails a noun, kilometers outside town when tux tails wrinkle to pump gas. My maiden appears, sees me, hikes her gown to full run. Moment of truth late devise from her eyes before her stiletto point plants just below the buckle if I had one. Blood red mix with a heavy wash — love sent to drain down on my cement, the last time. A string of adjectives fumble as keys duty to ring, scatter where I’m found on the ground like some unconjugated noun. 2.28.23 40 lines, post modernist, nihilistic whatchamacallit, yeah, poetry? https://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/unconjugated Giving double? new?? meaning to 59-year-old definition…get how title and theme are supported? romantic chase, just as text reveal nouns alone like our narrator/hero? failing in pursuit of her, post alter, again, after the noun/subject/object of his attention. He’s alone as a noun. This is tiresome — explaining. ![]() |
![]() I’m fat and I want to eat. I’m fat, and I want to eat. I want to eat and I’m so, so, so, so, so~oo fat. How much time was that? A trip around the dairy case. Cheesecakes in aquarium colorful as a coral reef swimming, swimming, swimming, swim around my head. Salivary glands imagine taste them, recreate memory. Remember: ‘have some cake’ ‘it’s your birthday’ ‘it’s their birthday’ ‘it’s a wedding!’ ‘we’re having a baby!’ ‘it’s a fundraiser’ ’it’s potluck at your church’ ‘you like cake?’ ‘come for dessert’ ‘join our club’ ‘we ate out’ ‘on the menu’ ‘let’s splurge’ ‘he’s retiring, she’s leaving’ ‘our grand opening’ ‘frozen, just thaw’ ‘decorate it, ice it, eat it’ ‘just because’ ‘you poor kid’ ‘you’re alone’ ‘you have no love or friends’ ‘cake’s your friend’. I’m dizzy now, on the floor. ‘Hypoglycemic?’ ‘Why don’t you eat?’ ‘You’re too skinny’ ‘need to fatten up’ Again? Worse than before? Where is the floor? I’m swimming on dry land. A fish that sinks, too fat. Still...want to eat. Get that carrot away! I swear… Carrot cake? Okay, twist my arm. Ow! Just another day. Hey! Cake! 35 lines of ever-lovin' (loosely) free verse in Dystopian dessert hell! 2.25.23 4.14.23 edit Review ▼ |