A new decade of musings from poetry to what inspires.
I've read poetry that opened my eyes, realize now mine have been closed when I write.|
The drive north is easier than south in summer.
If you only write when inspired, you may be a fairly decent poet, but you'll never be a novelist. -NEIL GAIMAN
And here I am
A new start for an old blog -- replaced by "Black Hole Super Nova Afterglow" , now at capacity as of 2018, focused on specific writing projects and goals:
Having no specific aim going forward...
I've hammered away at this glass with forefinger since resurrecting in 2014. I'm always ready to say too weary. Compulsion compels me, instigation informs, and still here I am...bright, full of light and dark, revealing hidden colors and shapes. That was before...
I hear what you are saying...but especiallly...what you are not.
Yes, I struggle. But I'm getting through it. How are you?
I've gone by other aliases. People remind me of that. Sometimes restrained, it's hard to understand what I write. It will be clear some day. Hard to hide what's in my heart. I'm making no apologies going forward for my feelings. Not interested in the trap of stereotypes. Not sure how we'll feel about that.
What I used to say: 'Maybe, I just don't get it. Watch me fumble with my version of reality, expose ignorance as truth. You don't have to get me, either. But, wish someone would explain me to myself.'Now that I've figured out the ever changing rules of your game, you take the ball away, no longer engage me to play. You pay a price for this kind of friendship. I lose, I guess.
You can't just read the parts that confirm (or can be construed as such out of context) your opinion of me, you mentally-stunted Neanderthal.
What? Oh, that? It's just a, ah, self-motivational speech I've been working on.
What? Yes, I should try to make it less negative.
I Could Get A Girl Like That
In Another Dimension
I'm living in two dimensions seeing you across
this wide room.
The 80s pulsing in my renewed veins make me know
I'm still a man.
In one dimension, I approach, broad shoulders
weave the heavy, dark scene strobed.
In another dimension, through whiskey mirror,
eye disinterest in pale reflection.
In this current reflection, a man who knows
a discontented woman.
In this dimension, a man still worthy enough,
despite the divide.
Time warps a man just as a young woman's mind,
by a fool eons past.
He would smash virtue; who, like a boy, only knew
how to drive to that goal.
In this dimension, the older man reflects
on opportunities wasted.
In this reflection, could take his time, drive
the length of her field.
But, in the final quarter, 80s nostalgia divides
my brain in hypothetical delusion.
I walk past, tip a cap to reveal the same blue eyes.
Harmless to her, she returns a smile.
"The Soundtrack of Your Life Challenge"
Idle Thoughts ▼
Mess We're In ▼
Last Night ▼
Swim Without You ▼
The Other Side Of Reflection ▼
Paper Heart ▼
World Rolls Away ▼
Black Receiver ▼
Safe Harbor ▼
Here And Now ▼
Time Loop ▼
Under The Skin (Eternal) ▼
This obtuse, underground language
You forced me speak; irksome,
I know --
Like the minds of children,
Unable to express to the busied parent,
In crisis, un-counseled
Un-able to form sen-ten-ces
Your ears disavow.
Never prepared to give answers --
A language you haven't mastered.
So, you set me down,
Regret yet having me?
One learned, the other unreasoned,
Linger beneath tongues
I hide in the wall closet,
Build forts with good blankets
In your home
To offspring like me
Who won't grow up fast enough,
Inspired by mood of 'In The Waiting Line' by Zero 7. I just hear this song and poems like this are produced. I wrote many more last month. Great song for January.
"The Soundtrack of Your Life Challenge"
Truth is refreshing. Truth is fleeting.
We live in fantasy, dream like Hollywood,
always believing (if we mean well)
with no actions, just words,
our invisible tapestry of rhetoric
if no one can find a thread to pull.
You yanked. We could feel it —
The soft underbelly of fleeting actors
holding glued costumes and hypocrisy.
We knew, here’s a man undeterred
who should fear. Undeterred,
Truth is out there; woven thin,
invisible to nude eyes. We believe in it,
sometimes touch. But, too fragile,
don’t handle it like you.
It cannot be grasped by the likes of us; and,
will we hear from you again?
Did you know you built a right
platform for liberals hanging?
When do the executioners come?
With enough time and money
they’ll write a happy ending, don
You had a role in it.
Now, cue Tom Hanks to play you
in the lead, soon streaming on ISIS.
Alone With My Lioness
Clearing the white drive,
hymns unsung from
my pink core —
black exhaust. I hope
the last exhaled about the house cat
envious of his revered lioness,
who alone does not know
his devotion, as she lies obscured
amid tall, dried grass and stick.
The heavy blade wielded, now idle,
props beneath my weight.
From the clean drive —
songs unrevealed linger in my heavy lungs,
black with regret.
I haven't told you about her yet,
lingering about this brilliant event.
Blinds dry eyes that yearn view
a blue vault, only to see
a long street,
as the snowplow comes.
Cars And Trucks
I’m not gay in your world, but
gay enough. I am not black either; however,
black wherever I roam without you.
I am not an immigrant, but a stranger
in an even stranger land watching their cries
like infants — helpless, little babies I refused be
since I grew up, took my medicine. Gut full
of the stuff soothes what rumbles within.
If I am not right,
or left, I am wrong and alone, watching
beer-guzzling hunters haul bloody trophies
on trucks like freedom. With mud on oversized tires,
be-dazzled grilles with tow hooks pull
tiny, two-wheel drive cars from ditches
in winter blizzards. The babies drive off
with meager thanks and expressions of shame.
I go home to the goth girl; attracted
to friends who daily reject her, shaves
her head, pumps that brain with Korean anime,
K-Pop, rants about repression, plight
of LBGTQ-plus — 13-year-old professed bisexual
(still pending), with lips more prepared for metal
piercing than tender kisses of lost innocence.
Her brother: tall, brilliant, master of piano and
brass instruments, top scorer of state and ACT testing
(Math, English, Science) befouls a basement couch
in the dark. Head strapped, controller aimed
at green distraction, too tired to remember
hand in missed assignments,
tracked on PowerSchool by two doughy parents
who'll be damned one of these babies
doesn't make the grade, land on feet to struggle
with something akin to virtual reality — our foggy existence.
Then find time to wonder…politics? What's this about?
Are you trying to get me to feel something, Mr. Trump?
Fabric of an already torn nuclear family tugged —
a tapestry too thin. Must we scrap it, create another?
And just how are we supposed to do that, when babies
bury shiny cars in ditches? Will the muddy trucks come?
My sensible SUV can't save us.
Prose and Dead Men
My tiger-striped flannel and matching yellow cap,
if slid askew, would remind living family
of the old man sitting on the tailgate
of his blue Ford, sheltered amid
flocked customers and other vegetable growers.
Cracking wise in the corner parking lot
of the local farmer’s market, his hat true --
angled in the ‘locked’ position.
A habit, I suppose, from serving in military.
Nicknamed Big John, missed death as a sentry in Guam
by just one hour. Relieved of post before
another throat slit, a nameless brother in arms.
I would not learn until I was dressed like the man.
These scribbled musings in secret journals
illuminate a dark mind. Hollow words spun,
like his cap, in my corner booth for hours
at mic’ed readings where no one peruses
the printed commitments amid pregnant pauses.
My endless voice scratchings echo an arena choked,
with tears in my eyes not for him but
some liberal heart bleeding, actualize
the purpose of prose.
What's in a name? You'd think
by any other she would smell as sweet.
Burst into my world like an unplanned thing,
I had no name for her until I saw tender, frightened,
so un-in-love with the light this trembling creature
revealed unto me,
I was her owner; until we mutually agreed while
playing horsey, she held my fate in her tight reigns,
some unmarked day, on the living room rug, where
chafed knees began to frail.
She was my owner; rebuffing any outward thought,
steady herself, quell angst against a world much more
punitive than a father now yielding to mother, who
one day delivered, “There's been a change.”
No, she's not Madeline Margaret anymore; but,
some pierced, hooded creature trolling about (still
my plaything), buried deep within that trembling,
tender-calling, bleeding heart. Just, 'Camden' now.
I was not to be introduced.
The story will have an ending, one day. But,
who will I see staring across a restaurant scene at me,
with love? The same contempt? For the man who
released trills from a choked throat, when
she became my owner?