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 |  Neurodivergent here. All the disgusting things I do or think on display. Wail away. |
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You don’t like it. I get it. Be truthful. Be honest with yourself. I had to be. And this is fair, make more rules to punish/negate rather than acknowledge/celebrate because fences, around obstacles surround trees climbing cliffs to secret clubs amid whispered oaths…with fingerpaint, koolaid and cellophane sammies in dad-built, small houses. Good with it and a 1,000,000 more reasons to yet whip out that sheathed numbered plastic after x years in negation. Good. I said good. Like Nostra-dumbass, written by my dim light. Some of you? No?? Nevermind. You have…enlightenment and couldn’t be more wrong to cast shadows. If you are put out with me, maybe, one day, I can offer a note from my doctor(s). This is semi-(im)pertinence. I make poor choices. Get regrets. But, as I age, the less I’ll care. Make…these words…you provoked…with a simple bullet…’if you don’t like it…’ The hole that passes through my soul you feel, adjust for, again and again. That’s why safe is not a good choice (for me), anymore. Risks with words, with a measure of aim, seek reward. Not here. No, never. I’ll apply myself, listen for their confusion…why…again…(not) him? Why do we do this? Are we good yet? How ‘bout now? Now, right? Yeah, you say we’re good… People like me can waste a lot of time cutting through the b.s. How can I know what you mean, if you won’t say what you mean? Observant, not sexist to say, it’s mostly women. Guys just trash talk, smear. Each is passive-aggressive in their own way. Sooo…. Short termers are feeding into what the long termers structure for short gain, while robbing our own privileges of promised freedoms... and you just believed them?!  let me think about that.  modern day counter culture turning back the clock with no hour hands, as society sent to an acidic bath of primordial ooze. workshopping that. |
can i remember the impulse? no sometimes i just leave my body come back as if nothing ever happened i might recall cringe wonder what happened to me where there is moral ambiguity and justification as i'm in bloody clothes eating at the kitchen sink my cookie like reward as a predator whose only feast is himself not plagued by guilt, shame or other programmed markers of a PTSD childhood but regret? what is my worth don't know what is my place don't ask anymore what can i do to make a difference circumvented not allowed not trusted because impulsive but do they know that? do i even know what i hunger? it's the game the game is the thing and they have so much stacked on every wall modified like duct tape an my impulses kick in it's a game are there victims besides me? no empathy, sympathy or pity need apply just explain me to me? 3.31.23 my head is crowning out of something like knowledge, infantile to you. i swear i'm not a psychopath, but want to be, if it will explain me. somewhere on the spectrum, a hybrid, no one can finger, i hide...from me as well. A book is coming…I keep telling myself…as all kinds of arbitrary deadlines near & pass…like blaring traffic. So, there’s that. |
| Not Your Villain Know your enemy as well as yourself and what you are capable of... Not your villain but a fly led by instinct, odors flung into sweet flesh hums, vibrates annoyance but no meaning, and a bug to you that you could just swat away. Not enough. More than plastic melded to coiled wire at arm's length dispatched from above... More than a brick or hammer if you could soldier one up, but... a readied, tactile, laser-guided, high-powered, semi-automatic gleam of an eye no homeowner should ever covet, send your hollow-jacket, metal missiles in directions mislead, misguided because you aimed at the last moment I hovered as an acrobatic bug with two days of life in a crusty container to eat garbage, your heap of dung, but not wing singed from your flammable, sky-sent vapor trails of gunpowder buzzy, whizzy target not sent from anyone, aimless, savoring the best of whatever its genius is; or was, before dehydrated carcass discovered in the sill of your winter home, when spring comes. more insects like your missiles come. do you savor the small, pungent death? flick! 3.31.23 43 lines of whatever i want to call it poetry, free to flow. something i made up on the fly. you know, because, i have hours before i die? excuse me as i shit on every surface touched. we near the flames of a dystopian revelation this generation could not conceive, having ditched literature, history, and lessons from life for RPG. You know the social commentary, but ignore it. You tell me to keep it positive. Like some writer in the pre-bard times, i cloak my coded messages to you in an archaic form none will near but lovers of poetry? Depends. Do you prefer encrypted in a form with meter and rhyme that distracts with a bittersweet melody or do we want to marshal our forces, cut through the thick skulls with blow torches and fill them with the gases of knowledge of the ice bergs they are headed for? Agggghhhh, too many metaphors! How can we know what he means if he will not say what he means!! Psst. Um. Hello. Forced into silence by people watching. Nudge, nudge. Oh, nevermind. I’ll just keep coding…I mean writing. ironically, written when i should be doing something different no incentive to do anything but what i want there are forces that want to squash life, annoying thing with utterances, in your home, that must be too agile for its own wit to be killed, replicated could live a thousand other lives, but chooses this one a bug equipped with human emotion that can be toyed with, much as a cat with crawling insects on the floor, witnessed the cat isn't mean either, lives by its own instincts, rules, yet governed can we think who watches the little battles and incentivizes play and outcomes? a homeowner that doesn't like/want bugs? thinking out loud, like a buzzy, whizzy thing. clueless. what am i supposed to be doing? since the sentences above? on the last day of the month? other than let my mind go off a chain? not medicated or anything. plenty of coffee in this gut. and that's pretty much it. i move on. or back. who knows? who knows. edited, so there's that. |
| On your dark shelves canned pears blacken in your attic spaces dusty boxes of her favorite Christmas decorations brown-wet, shriveling in your garden outer reaches suffocate the heirlooms rooting ‘neath trees and roots dormant until fresh invigoration of less acidic soil seeps a decaying memory of a once prolific plant, spoiling vision of all others’ daring, like your toddler darling so promising before unruly shoved and crawled, sprawled across your perfect carpet. Snipped and pruned, treated rude, recoiled from perceived hate, your retracted love. What was I? Five when I discovered you doted over that freckled brat more. The incense consumer who burned through hemp and tobacco before lost because he sucked at that teat until weaned and succor no more. 3.3.23 3.28.23 still…what was aim? A book is coming…I keep telling myself…as all kinds of arbitrary deadlines near & pass…like blaring traffic. So, there’s that. A book is coming…I keep telling myself…as all kinds of arbitrary deadlines near & pass…like blaring traffic. So, there’s that. |
| They point to the things I’ve done that are normal rather that illuminate and identify my human errors that I can’t explain, that slip through the cracks. And then I forget. I’m no longer dogged because I’m left feeling I’ve been playing a game with my own tail. I have to ‘let it go’. A tale I can’t concretely tell because I’m so in love with colorful, multi-syllabic adjective-filled, metaphorical, symbolic, allegorical sub-reality of life (can’t get in on the ground floor — some worm surfacing and suffocating, or a fish…), but make it an adverb, lovingly, incorrectingly and I’m realizingly (why must you auto-correct, but do need you to call me on my shit) stoopid? pedantic Apple ass. 3.10.23 A few thoughts as my ADHD kicked in while reading a blurb-like-forward for the author of ‘I Overcame My Autism And All I Got Was This Lousy Anxiety Disorder’ https://autismspectrumnews.org/what-i-hope-people-will-get-out-of-my-autism-memo... A book is coming…I keep telling myself…as all kinds of arbitrary deadlines near & pass…like blaring traffic. So, there’s that. A book is coming…I keep telling myself…as all kinds of arbitrary deadlines near & pass…like blaring traffic. So, there’s that. |
| Since The Bustier Show (post 90s music icons) by Anonymous Misogynist Show your boobs or let the girl who can actually sing take the stage younger, prettier, corruptible we hope and imagine defile as easily as you our balls are not on the idiomatic table but your breasts we need on a platter if you insist introducing the next song entice our base desires with the most revealing gear (or nothing) or maybe that songbird in wing shadowed duets as you jiggle and cavort in theatre of our minds? take over base imagination scenarios project sweetly vulgar — fantasy mix with rhythm a composition pairing us with you or let her sing innuendo veiled All-American teen, beauty Queen with you as dominatrix. Maybe, that was too much. What video next? ‘hot boobs teen singer’ hashtag hashtag hashtag hashtag + + + + Is this really for free? Baited, government keeping tabs on me? 3.8.23 3.28.23 edit, add last lines This poem was not good. Written alone on a Wednesday at work while stocking door knobs. It can get more pornographic. Warming up. A book is coming…I keep telling myself…as all kinds of arbitrary deadlines near & pass…like blaring traffic. So, there’s that. A book is coming…I keep telling myself…as all kinds of arbitrary deadlines near & pass…like blaring traffic. So, there’s that. |
| Memory like snow each puff on an angle away no time to drift or float like riddles from spring sky unloaded from deft clouds destroyed before I can personify mourn each death to pavement to each laced in with collected white but hope for the few resting in crooks and branches of bare crab trees or laying upon green bows of pine I hear gales, gust whips when snow flung near a startled Robin Good luck with that nest… Wish I could rest Monologuing alone about something I forget 3.12.23 3.28.23 A book is coming…I keep telling myself…as all kinds of arbitrary deadlines near & pass…like blaring traffic. So, there’s that. |
| Thoughts devolve, revolve in concentric loops that try to link back if I can remember the point of that anecdote. I might spin on a flat plain, miles and miles of eye-appealing scenery, remember relevant episodes from life, rejuvenated but realize my mind has circumvented a trip, taking me down old avenues instead of new thought boulevards before I’m in the thick of wooded country. I think it’s a cozy, pleasurable ride until I realize fear in your eyes — lost, unsure of this journey. How can I remap, bring us back to that unplanned exit and seek true destination, revelation before we’re back on Main Street, Where you’re dropped off. I set to cruising, coasting, seeking new passengers, or endure a lonely trip. Maybe, someone else needs to navigate. Might have to give up the wheel. I’m steering in the dark. 3.23.23 A book is coming…I keep telling myself…as all kinds of arbitrary deadlines near & pass…like blaring traffic. So, there’s that. |
| What Crawled Up My Butt? I want to ask for help don’t know how to ask for help I don’t know how to answer be real when they ask their questions put me on the hoist poke at my my framework and what to adjust chemically for causality when I can deflect I can live with pain the annoyance the ignorance to consequence of loneliness because I’d rather be alone in silence than with them in awkward silence give me a person who doesn’t judge with their mouth their eyes, their indifference and get me the hell away from the one that says welcome to the club Jehovahs, Mormons, AARP United Way, Red Cross blood drives and benevolent societies to Fund police I’ll sit in my box like the cat you don’t feed or let outside but eat your hypothetical nucleic cyanide and live in relativity I don’t ask for help I don’t want help Don’t gaslight, mindspeak or do whatever Fahrenheit 451 to me yeah, I’ll keep it positive while I sit in your dark eating your shit. Ready to be your higher processing cyborg eventually Elon. Don’t have children. Starve consumerism. Jobs should have stayed dead. A book is coming…I keep telling myself…as all kinds of arbitrary deadlines near & pass…like blaring traffic. So, there’s that. |
| I’m not smart, but there is some thing persistent in my brain that needs to know the truth. And while I imagine myself as someone who would say, I disembowel myself instead of disavow myself, when I ignorantly misspeak, I actually only do it ironically (the result of binging too many sitcoms). But because of my flat affect, cannot deliver feigned ignorance convincingly, my comical expression revealed as just stupid. An attempt to entertain others, with wit, sends ignorant, pedantic boasts, ignoring the comic point. But, I told you about that thing in my brain that can’t be rerouted, rewired. Why buckle under, explain myself, again, bow to the ignorant postulations that I’m dumb, just yield? So am I smart? To let them? Box me in? 3.20.23 A book is coming…I keep telling myself…as all kinds of arbitrary deadlines near & pass…like blaring traffic. So, there’s that. |
| Having thought pen lacking idea growing first utensil located rubs paper dry the light etchings on tree fiber forms barely traceable valleys on the page and the scribbled storm of anger that leaked a bit of ink, finally…but ran dry mid word and the wiry clouds formed whirls topmost never producing a drop in a tempest tossed emotions lapping over thoughts inspiration does not flounder in a corked bottle bobbing safe. It drowns. Pens refreshed stand at the ready in the midst night when a dream awoke the most beautiful feeling to run through a flowery field of words. The quill clutched looks to aim to aim to aim Nothing to scrawl on remains and the search — for a bookmark? Envelope? A napkin that will do? Matchbook covers once sufficed at a bar. In wild youth a cut oozed from forefinger stained a curled sleeve of white bark. Inspired thoughts I thought I cannot recall because misplaced — our initials in that tree, gone as well Talk to text ruins creativity produces and ego’s rushed spontaneity I cannot trust my hand to a page It’s too easy to mail it in. 3.20.23 A book is coming…I keep telling myself…as all kinds of arbitrary deadlines near & pass…like blaring traffic. So, there’s that. |
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