All that remains: here in my afterlife as a 'mainstream' blogger, with what little I know. |
The Idiotic Ideate?? Formerly: New Zenith To Hell…(all started with arc as writer here from the trials of Rising Stars to Preferred Author to WDC Quills Best Poetry Collection to the falling action I feel now that settles in a white case.) Got to hustle to preserve the best of me before fully fading on that virtual horizon glowing more brilliant with each passing day to permanent nuclear winter. if people don’t get it, I don’t need to explain it. We kill all that’s beautiful before we question it’s purpose. So many people find it easier to think in the black and the white. God forbid you get lost straying in the gray. "Whoever fights monsters should see to it…he does not become a monster.” I’ve been to the abyss and back. Not so bad. The loneliest happy person you'd ever meet, when not the saddest person who needs to be alone. In an ever-changing world, we need to handle topics at the ready. If you roll over and give in to the narrative without lending a voice of your own, you might as well hand over your civil liberties. We have voices that should connect to true conscience and spirit for honest and open discourse. Why feel so redacted? Unify on issues and put drama aside. Open minds require complete objectivity. If none need apply, question the unbendable sources for answer. If you knee-jerk react to every issue lurking out there that clutches your neck, you fall victim to your own ignorance born from a life of apathy (no doubt) in pathetic cries of injustice. Just writing what I feel without the narrative-altering mind f---ing with my head. [MY Chorus] In your house, I long to be Room by room, patiently I'll wait for you there, like a stone I'll wait for you there, alone "It amazed me how truth was often suffocated in minutes, but lies were given sufficient air to breathe indefinitely." "You are all better than you think you are, you are just designed not to believe it when you hear it from yourself." "...lasting art is never anything more than a mathematical expression of the relations that exist between the internal and the external, the self [le moi] and the world." -Jean Metzinger I'm in love with carefully chosen words, arranged just so, audible, edible, to inhale. I attempt to post new poems and epiphanies daily with some links to what inspires. I am legally blind with a rare, genetic form of glaucoma. I'm described as "end stage" after two successful surgeries, still subject to further vision loss. Cataracts complicating matters. Writing Can get strenuous but seldom deters what yearns to emerge, despite a documented history of depression and recently diagnosed ADHD and undefinable social disorders and/or PTSD. My recent poetry:
Sometimes epiphanies about my insights on writing and life and what goes on... Making sense of life is maddening. Why do I need to know, when truth may not actually exist? Learning to accept would be a better pursuit? Flailing about in my own mediocrity, hoping to bust out. I am visible. You can put a face with a name. I would like to see other writers, too. Fiction is what you write, not who you are. Reinventing myself. I couldn't continue on the path I was on and needed a fresh start. This time around I want to put the focus on writing and the world outside of this community as it affects my life. I realize now that I have been baring my chest a bit more, as when young. fake me much more boring and unliberated than the real me. A world arriving as silent as that blossom in your garden that I told you about... |
Rose petals, strafed By gentle currents, descend as pink tear drops, clot brittle weeds before lost love lifts to the sky. See me now from heaven? Buoyed on pricked arms, watchful bald buds throb joy, Bittersweet envision gleeful castoffs pocketing dreams on summer carpet — for some greater purpose? Butterflies fibrillate, intoxify a solemn, near barren bush -- sunshine glitter searching succulent dew drops that I might live forever? Wait longer. Should breath leave me, I want to be standing here in your colored scene, inhaling nature, reviving hope in dreams. 6.23.17 6.28.22 revised |
Writing today nostalgically. Only going to share one paragraph… "I can sit on my front stoop and listen to them chop weeds up the block. I can still hear children playing in the street, even though it's fainter then the joy of youth. Summer days come every year and leave disappointment with the death that is fall. We know winter is coming and we have to prepare, but we don't want to. Always, Spring is our hindsight, have Summer in our hearts. Fall is bittersweet. But, Winter, that's the one season I could do without." |
Unlove... my tender baggage taken; that piece of your heart, torn from my clutch... not yours to give, mine; proof you once cared, in my hands now... burgundy waste pulseless. |
You can't say things better than this: "His heart beat faster and faster as Daisy’s white face came up to his own. He knew that when he kissed this girl, and forever wed his unutterable visions to her perishable breath, his mind would never romp again like the mind of God. So he waited, listening for a moment longer to the tuning-fork that had been struck upon a star. Then he kissed her. At his lips’ touch she blossomed for him like a flower and the incarnation was complete." -F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby Poetry and fiction are intertwined. |
I look at the bottom of a drained mug, ask it fill me again. Idle spoon, nothing to stir. Without a word we stare out the window: same landscape, same memories. Oil-topped table props weary limbs that toil at nothing. A brain, still searching for something inside its unforgiving vessel, looks again. Still mocking... or just myself? Dusty floor smooth beneath two stiff feet. Veins unharmoniously pang, the clot pedestals will not send us to the life-giving machine. Had enough. A silent, gray frown. At least I'm served by the sun until it goes down. There's a world at my doorstep. Make it go away. It's late. |