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 Neurodivergent here. All the disgusting things I do or think on display. Wail way. |
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Like Nostra-dumbass, written by his dim light. Some of you? No?? Nevermind. If you are put out with me, maybe, one day, I can get a note from my doctor. I make poor choices. I have regrets. But, the older I get, the more I don't care. That’s why safe is not a good choice. Risks with words, with a measure of aim, seek reward. Not here. No, never. I’m odd enough as it is. 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 don’t mean what you say? 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 your just believed them?!  let me think about that.  modern day counter culture turning back the clock with no hour hands sent to an acidic bath of primordial ooze. workshopping that. |
| What if truth was a coin and you only had to pick one side? Do you know your heads from your tales? let’s play around with the truth you don’t know me you know things about me selectively only what you want to learn BUT, ignore what doesn’t fit in your frame now I’m over here who moved me into the corner? how do I get here? I’ll let you inspect what is circumspect you might not like the answers I call truth perspective not part of your narrative sits on my side of the table is that gum under here? 5.27.23 big, Big, BIG conspiracy theorist for chasing after truth head-bagged, hauled out of its home in the middle of the night the children always wondered if dad had run out on them, a betrayer, or was mom the enemy? and other psycho babble let’s discredit ourself by being self-deprecating because we know what lies therein from the absence of truth puzzles are more easily deconstructed see the picture on the box constructing word puzzles in the middle of the night |
| Kidney Shots Bullies need kidney shots Be ready to run But I know This is not done I hide Bide my time Aware of friendly Strangers Aware where it’s safe Out in the open Who fights dirty? Amid new friends Not at my back When I see my tormentor I was brought to you Unholy. No mercy Once bled Never again Bullies need groin kicks You get one shot Don’t hover that heap Friends aren’t far away Since the first schoolyard day Until the last sunset Aware I’m alone Aware what body blows do Having experienced Since the first bully Is it Me? Let’s see, shall we? 5.14.23 Plucksome mood, gravitating higher. With or without, I’m with my tormentor always, thankful for being driven to aimless heights, pointless outcomes, to get through life with purpose like a Truth vigilante. Not meaning to expose the bullies but my right to co-exist…fairly. It’s your failure when the world dehumanizes to give bullies justification for actions and reactions. It’s about: plausible deniability. Me: it’s all about plausible deniability, am I right? Bully: what’s that? Me: exactly. Does that make me smug? So be it. Not my first rodeo, not the first narrative I couldn’t control. DocX |
| Having Swooped I fly into your fan fly into your fan into your fan I fly toward your fan. I fly toward you a swoon, swoop after I flew breathing still inhale swoop, swoon in a fragrant redness tender tulips arrival I arrived by flying to your fan to your fan into the window fan swoop from limb to feeder swoop, swoon swallow in red clumps hit the glass fell, survive you ask why won’t I die? I fly… 5.14.23 Coda: a rehash with perspective you ask for more I comply Fail Retry Rest Not dead, yet…? Who’s the fool? 99 times, me? Math is not subjective does not yield to external factors unless outcomes are fixed like clear glass truth subjectively hides on your side 5.14.23 further yet: you can point to a still breathing bird amid returning flowers in red mulch and question. it’s a projection of ignorance, delusion and undeniable result when a plucky bird regroups once it lifts to that limb on the tree outside your home. Cue a thousand of us: Hitchcock film. |
| Once bitten, thirty-two times chewed. Easily digestible. No time. I’ll drink my lunch. Now I’m not shy, but bit. I can easily quit, view their spectacle at the trough. 5.9.23 30 words, free verse I made it up. So what? ▼ |
| Another poem not fully realized…lifecabd stuff, you know? In the past 15 seconds my brain has deceived me, it leads me, denies me full access to its process that I can’t fully retrace footprints of a stained brain where I store thoughts, like memories in a short frame, few store in that microprocessor, the visual instability, continuously bombarded in a stable realm, home, but to the excruciating excitement of the long ride, to park, walk from lots to airport, tickets, luggage, scan and scan and scan and wand — jog terminals, scan, plane, cram, overhead and cram, and squirm and cram and plop. smells and cries and starvation before the steel cart cuts a swath, crush hard biscuits’ flavor crammed in the jutted crevices, suck and suck, sip and savor a soda nursed, juggle waste and waste time, finally collected from ascent, distorted mechanical dialogue, to descent, clutch, hold, hang on, then wiggle and wobble, tow and toddle and un-tuna-can, pained legs abide, to the spun luggage, head spins the spun carousel, until identified, snatch and grab and haul a lot in a human jam, to rental lot, vehicle, choose, but route map to destined vacay rental, turn key, blow hair back, where brain and me truly get lost, navigate highway, dull scenery, 15 times infinity in a spin, when red rock towers, cactus flowers, cicadas hum, windows down in small town and stop at a dry river bed, lug and roll behind the cottage. Luggage contents in strategic locations and place my lot by the sink, night stand. we eat, drink wine, I feign relax and to bed strange, mattress a strange world in stranger fabric not cotton. How many divisions of 15 endured, 15 more, 15 more, 15 more. Count goes night long. I hold on. String it together, retrace steps. But, will I remember where I am, who I am, the warm woman lying next to me by morn. 15 seconds is a lot from here to there. Despair. I set a foot forward, toward a nook, turn back. Look at her form, wonder if I can ask. What got me here? My motivation? How divest an anxious soul on sweet vacation. And not spoil this for her, mated travel companion, so near a hopeful canyon. The chasm inside a space just like synapses in a slow brain, breaking speed records without trace. Snapshots. Pose and point and look back on it. 15 seconds, one year later, I frown at the sight of it. Every moment dust brain speed to that red vortex and never reappeared. 4.30.23 https://www.sciencealert.com/to-help-us-see-a-stable-world-our-brains-keep-us-15... A book is coming…I keep telling myself…as all kinds of arbitrary deadlines near & pass…like blaring traffic. So, there’s that. |
| Theorems of a mind in deficit Dear Professor, a beautiful thing asymmetry accepted, but rivaled and unequal to your grandeur of utopian visions fed Yet bits of encrypted data that leaks these lips, dull replies for your patented affirmations of ‘perfect’ what ideals i ideate i create on the fly not from my ass but brain simmering about to boil messier than any pot atop a staining stove bake this in your conventional oven I’ll wait did I get the recipe right? Chef? Dinner for one, again I know it wasn’t cake I tried to make A tender flake with love created I’ll savor Signed, Your Professor 5.2.23 Edit later? What the…?? |
| Holding It In…for you, who sleeps at night I don’t read aloud some of my favorite poetry writes — thick text best left to the fantastical theatre of my mind. please don’t approach with platitudes for sifting through that jumble of collected words, strung up, glowing array — window display but exhumed demons of my mind exercised, forced to my devices to purge these life lessons. my ramblings might give the faux angelic appearance of reformed psychopath who raged, buckled under — but not a danger in pressurized chamber ceding these diamonds. lay down pawns for kings positioned to prompt, hoping I’d sacrifice my queen rather than bleed an army of in Trojan, troubled soul. So, don’t expect a shove in the shoulder, smile and shout ‘get outta here’, humbly acquiesce when you acknowledge. I’m too busy punching myself in the damned heart with a frown-brain rewired, as I fight internally eternally. Not your fight. Right. Just thought you’d care to know, since you only notice the sweetest gifts and concessions of a bleeding heart, holding it in. Smile. Move on to the next, certain they’ll also appreciate glowing remarks. 4.21.23 No small task for an emotional person to use objectivity, logic and override a torment that ravages my body, holding it all in What’s unique about poems like this is jotted thoughts written one at a time from the mind’s simmering process that produces each floating revelation. Raw and incomplete and still or forever informing. Now edited and shared, here. A week from now I’ll forget the impulse that produces this…take more time…depending how deep we go to get that memorable scar. Or, remember those cuts open to receive more happy words in salted wounds. A book is coming…I keep telling myself…as all kinds of arbitrary deadlines near & pass…like blaring traffic. So, there’s that. |
| My mom was apparently famous for saying, "I'm for everyone." I'm infamous for inferring I'm not for everyone. In fact, very few can endure (cliche) insufferable (end cliche) me. Where's all of this headed? Mom had a cat named "Nigger Bob" when she was growing up as a kid in South Dakota. She didn't see anything wrong with that when I called her a racist. We were both ignorant. Now, I'm some kind of something. She was better than me because she knew how to behave, except not how to raise a 'different' kid she sometimes called a 'dumb bunny'. I know I'm not dumb. Somethings take more time. Some things need be handled with 'kid gloves'. Sometimes, parents don't have the tools to raise a 'special child'. But there is time, as one ages, to set things right. If given a chance to not let truth spoil in their hands when no one else will realize what they've discovered. Boxed by people's perceptions, races, genders, disabilities and sexual proclivities aside, it's hard why people can act so progressive and still be regressive when they decide to shun one another. I heard my mom was for everyone after she was gone. I would have said, no, she wasn't. She was and wasn't for me and was ignorant, as was I. But, I keep searching for truth and answers, rebuffed when I go poking in 'the wrong places' because inhumanity, dehumanization, hatred and ignorance intermingle, coexist more than branded people who lack distinguishing marks. How will you know how to compartmentalize a world around you, encroaching begging your alms of love. Not realizing, you can sit down, enjoy your tea or coffee in the houses of communion and step off whatever podium soap box that collects those stubborn toes toeing. I am just a boy with a mom who was average and unique, to me. And I don't have to explain myself, my disabilities, so I can find elbow space in the houses where I've sought love. It's over. I can't open a heart any wider to let others in who only want to savage from the inside, a circuitry that has been messed since it was created in her womb of words, her ignorant acts of love toward others, world, me that I reflect or reject based on some impulses of my own to act or now, not react, to the manipulators and ignorance that surrounds in a sea of soft, soft heads. We aren't progressing as humanity, but regressing to our safe spaces with machine calculators figuring us out. I could go on. No one is listening. This was not planned. Neither will the next collection of words tapped from fingers to spacing thumbs. We all have senses and sensibilities rooted in our past, brought to the present in some bath still simmering, aging, now regressing. It's hard to find faith in communion of thought with so much disparity among the disparaging to those reserving their thoughts, until the right moment, they think, to strike and cancel one another until one remains? I fight for peace of thought while others purchase poison or guns to demonstrate their right to terminate. 4.16.23 last rambling thought of the hour, day, week, month, year, life? edit...later? checks, mouth. is it all counterfeit? should I be locked up? I hear a resounding YES in my head. i might be close, and not. |
| The brain has an off switch You might only get one chance to use it If not used correctly you might try again to shut it down I'm neither Otto the book or movie but I relate Maybe, you should read something into this? 4.16.23 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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