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 A nothing from nowhere cast his words to a world wide wind, and got in your 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. |
| 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. |
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Great poem, Brian.
Dreams feel good though. Thanks for posting this one, Brian 
