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 A nothing from nowhere cast his words to a world wide wind, and got in your eye. |
| If You Had Time To Kill by Read This (post coded, except for this, by Smirk, except for…) Do you have some place to be? Let me know the moment you do go. Book title: If You’re Trying To Capture Perfection, I Have Sad News Book Title: In Pursuit Of Perfection: No New News Since Utopian Ideals Book Title: Perfect! Is How I Know Dystopia Exists Book Title: Perfection Is A Beautiful Thing That Doesn’t Covet Democracy Book Title: Nihilism Trying To Capture Perfection Is Impossible, or, A Vegas Magic Trick Book title: It’s Too Late To Debut Me, save yourself and other dramatic thoughts surfacing like oxygenated bubbles of a boiling bath, not broth yet. So I Tried To Write It by Soup Oxygenated, I breath inside the bubbles breaking surface of a hot bath. Inside each, masterpieces and hellos bled into the atmosphere that chews and eats or spits out all my love. (Could you at least savor for flavor?) Whoever (Whomever?) should breath one in…well, Just listen to the bursted air globule… And let me know…if it’s too wet, or should I just surface to disturb this rolling boil still lacking sustenance? (What goes in this metaphor?) — Hydrogen 12/15/25 I could reevaluate, redesign this. But why? It’s just a bubble of thought that dies as I do. Yeah, dramatic. Were you expecting dark comedy? anti-hero? complicated plot that even loses producer/writer and director? The cinematographer of my still life would like a note on the placement of fruit, contrast of dark on doused light, or if it’s worth debut at the faux film festival. The problem isn’t that I don’t write enough (1), or reflect before composing thoughts (2), but that I can’t stop until it is a train wreck (3). Sorry about the mess? (and repeat the groundhog process expecting different results?) And there you have it — A thought inside a bubble just burst. Aren’t you going to go see? I’m still stuck in the painting Life has composed for me… …would be another collection title Sad part is I can’t put anything together because the soup is unattended. Or, fear that it serves procrastination. That’s another boiling pot on the back burner. I forget about it, mostly. Did Emily Dickinson go through this process? Or, am I a bigger recluse?? What’s my obsession here??? Let me win at something? If I were to post…(longer and post elongated, except for title and byline above that was added last, except for this [it will pay off later, I hope]). Title: Save All The Periods For Me by Blowing Through Stop Signs With Only Commas And Line Breaks (The Above title is post, post, post script… Except for this [hears echoes of a wasted afternoon inside something arriving and hot]). Do you have some place to be? Let me know the moment you do go. Book title: If You’re Trying To Capture Perfection, I Have Sad News Book Title: In Pursuit Of Perfection: No New News Since Utopian Ideals Book Title: Perfect! Is How I Know Dystopia Exists Book Title: Perfection Is A Beautiful Thing That Doesn’t Covet Democracy Book Title: Nihilism Trying To Capture Perfection Is Impossible, or, A Vegas Magic Trick Book title: It’s Too Late To Debut Me, save yourself and other dramatic thoughts surfacing like oxygenated bubbles of a boiling bath, not broth yet.{{font:times} So I Tried To Write It by Soup Oxygenated, I breathe inside the bubbles breaking surface of a hot bath. Inside each, masterpieces and hellos bleed into the atmosphere that chews and eats or spits out all my love. (Could you at least savor for flavor?) Whoever (Whomever?) should breath one in…well, just listen to the bursted air globule… and let me know? if it’s too wet, or should I just surface to disturb this rolling boil still lacking sustenance? (What goes in this metaphor?) — Hydrogen Surfacing 12/15/25 I could reevaluate, redesign this. But why? It’s just a bubble of thought that dies, as I do. Yeah, dramatic. Were you expecting dark comedy? anti-hero? complicated, incepted plot that even loses producer/writers and director? The cinematographer of my still life would like a note on the placement of fruit, contrast of dark on doused light, or if it’s worth debut at the faux film festival. The problem isn’t that I don’t write enough (1), or reflect before composing thoughts (2), but that I can’t stop until it is a train wreck (3). Sorry about the mess? (and repeat this groundhog process expecting different results?) And there you have it — A thought inside a bubble just burst. Aren’t you going to go see? I’m still stuck in the painting life has composed for/of me… …would be another collection title Sad part is I can’t put anything together because the soup is unattended. Or, fear that it serves procrastination. That’s another boiling pot on the back burner. I forget about it, mostly. Did Emily Dickinson go through this process? Or, am I a bigger recluse?? What’s my obsession here??? Let me win at something? How I Mitigate Is Not A Perfect Recipe and I wouldn’t change a single element by isotope? via Aristotle With A Boxed Big Bang Sandwich, And Side Of Brain Gravy An Element met an isotope at a bar for drinks and nine months later a vagina big bang produced a bit of cosmic dust intermingling with all creation since in a widening, welcoming statue of a French woman named Liberty who now says I’m a bastard, but can’t catch me as time keeps us further and farther apart. Is what I would make up on the spot without consulting but my experience meeting experimentation in a lab over a beaker of colored potions to drink and decades later, I arrived unto myself, incepted and aware, but I have nothing in the planner (who am I kidding?) for the rest of time, but to dream adventures of every memory in time vehicles called memories, but the human components are wearing out and it’s hard to get good DNA to replace, as one dose could treat any of my maladies for 3.2 million dollars apiece, but I can’t get my health provider on the phone. — my mitigation, not yours, but I keep…No, secrets. And now I’m done? Not by a long shot. I’ll self-publish and later by a hand-gun to clean my ears Is what I would finally say… except for this except for this except for this except for this except for this except for this except for this except for this except for this except for this except for this except for this except for this except for this except for this except for this except for that gotcha! Now I have to start all over again. I was born on a Sunday at 2:30 pm. I know this because mom didn’t like to miss work when in labor. I made sure to keep her busy for 39 years before finding someone who’d put up with my crap 30 more. How the hell old am I? Let’s just skip to the end, again. Except for this. Except for that. Dammit! |
| In The Now, Before You Go Because now, all the holes have been plugged, and grog is the apiary mind fog. Little particles of light accumulate on shaped glass with all glowing dreams a-buzz, a-hum, thriving — your anticipant soul vibrates, re-arriving in final sleep, another insect life comfortably snuggles with flower decay, root and leaf, miracle-color-essence inhale temporary lives a spectacled boy studied, unaware death filled one alive with wonder. Time expanding outside the jar, speeding through every journey, stem to stem, feeding all of them — dutiful, courteous, again and again, from season until fall and return to tender hands again — unafraid of the bumbling stinger, as last rites read — and bury diligence retired, adding words of praise. An eyelid closes you out, sent to perpetual dark, seeking spirit that resides, that lives! Wherein life hid, and merry again, a boy at ten. No ignorance spared, learning, again and again, flower-investigation, tipping a cap, though nothing tips back but a crown, nestled in conjoined green fibers where we laid, warmth of memory — time with a friend, to the end, was apiary. Because now, the time to lay it all on a mantle, groggily bow, know hard work deserves the best rest. 11.27.25/12.2.25/12.15.25 To love you is to know that I knew myself…to say, I knew you a little better by being aware…and with all deepest respect. I could also note this poem acts to excuse myself to nap amid present company (Thanksgiving, I recall), past dinner, noting I still hear myself, as a wide-eyed boy dismissed, operating in the deficit awe back then. But, counterintuitive, not disrespectfully, I try your tired minds with awe still, bothersome inquisitor, would also like them to understand…it sucks being dismissed. I have love. No place to put it. Edited out: A watery grave will not spin for a yellow friend who deserves return to the dust of yesterday’s hive, recall all the days alive until this last one, yet humming. |
| A little bit pitchy and fast, but better than a slower version I found on YouTube after stumbling over a story looking for something else. Supposedly, not Ms. Nicks (I tried speeding the Atlanta Rhythm Section hit still sounded like the lead vocalist, sooo…), but a controversy once when a DJ took requests to replay the ARS hit this way, after accidentally letting the 33 RPM album cut roll at 45 RPM. Ms. Nicks got wind of it, slipped it in with her other offerings to the band, fooling Christine McVie. Might be some better stories about it online (copy and paste internet counterfeiters really make a mess). It just confirms my concerns Tom Petty had when her management got her the duet on “Stop Dragging My Heart Around.” He didn’t say; I inferred. And, yet another interesting story. She was also a package deal with Mr. Buckingham, otherwise we might have missed out. //Imagination unreal Imaginary lovers All the time Draggin’ my heart around// I could have more. In the meantime… My brain is trying to mix two songs…why…this always opens my eyes, but… AI, let ‘em have it… Led Zeppelin's "Ramble On" is a song about the journey of life and the pursuit of adventure, heavily inspired by J.R.R. Tolkien's The Lord of the Rings. The lyrics combine the band's constant touring with the epic quest of Frodo and Sam, framing their experiences as a weary traveler's journey. The song's title itself reflects the constant moving and searching for new experiences. “Tolkien-inspired narrative * A fantastical quest: The song's narrative is a blend of the band's life on the road and the famous literary quest. * Familiar elements: It includes direct references to characters and locations from The Lord of the Rings, such as the "darkest depths of Mordor," "Gollum," and "The Evil One" (Sauron). * Poetic license: The lyrics take liberties with the source material, such as having Gollum steal the "girl," which some interpret as a poetic reference to the Ring itself. Themes of journey and restlessness * The troubadour's journey: The song embodies the spirit of a troubadour constantly moving from place to place and refusing to settle, a theme Robert Plant embraced in his career. * End of a chapter: The lyrics also touch on the idea of a journey ending, with the "summer" being over and the weary traveler needing to move on. * Yearning and freedom: The chorus's "rambling on" is a direct expression of restlessness and the desire for new experiences and horizons.” Transition into… “The Buffalo Springfield song "For What It's Worth" was inspired by the 1966 Sunset Strip curfew riots in Los Angeles, which stemmed from new anti-loitering laws and a curfew targeting young people. While it originated from this local issue, the song's universal message about social tension and protest made it a counterculture anthem for the 1960s and beyond. The lyrics reflect the feeling of a generation questioning authority, with lines that address social and political unrest, and it remains relevant due to its themes of police, paranoia, and division. * Origin: The song was written by Stephen Stills in response to the 1966 Sunset Strip curfew riots. These riots broke out after authorities imposed an anti-loitering ordinance and a curfew, which led to clashes between young people and police. * Universal message: Although sparked by a local event, the song's lyrics about social unrest and conflict resonated with many other movements, including the civil rights and anti-Vietnam War protests. * Anthem status: The song became an anthem for the counterculture movement because of its questioning tone and themes of division and resistance. * Timeless relevance: The lyrics' references to social tensions, protests, and police actions have made the song continuously relevant, often cited as applicable to modern times. * Interesting fact: The song's title does not appear anywhere in the lyrics.” So people are young and restless and bored -adventure Too much time on my hands -counterculture Summarized, you see, by two other bands  . I’ve unclogged 7 of the 8 cylinders. Manifold and carb gunk goes next (unrelated?) —Innocence lost Ramble on The time is now Paranoia’s informing me There’s something happening here Leaves are falling all around Man with a gun, got to be aware For now I smell the rain, and with it pain, and it's headed my way Time we stop Hey, what's that sound? Everybody look what's going down Ramble on, sing my song There's battle lines being drawn Mine's a tale that can't be told, my freedom I hold dear Nobody's right if everybody's wrong How years ago in days of old, when magic filled the air Young people speaking their minds Got no time…for spreading roots The time has come to be gone What a field-day for the heat A thousand people in the street ‘Twas in the darkest depths of Mordor, I met a girl so fair, Paranoia strikes deep Into your life it will creep Ah, there's nothing I can do now I guess I'll keep on, I'm gonna ramble on, sing my song It starts when you're always afraid Step out of line, the man come and take you away Gonna work my way, going 'round the world I can't stop this feeling in my heart It’s time to stop Nobody’s right if everybody’s wrong I've been this way ten years to the day Ramble on, I can't find my bluebird! Children, what's that sound? Everybody look what's going down I listened to what my bluebird said, but I keep rambling, baby Ah, sometimes I grow so tired But I know I've got one thing I got to do Ah, there's nothing I can do now I guess I'll keep on, Rambling What’s that sound. Everybody, Look what’s going down Baby, baby, baby, baby, baby! I gotta keep on searching for my baby! I do a dead-on Robert Plant *shakes head* On a good day, John Legend *shakes head* I can’t hit D1 these days. It used to be E. But gritty, Waits-like gravel from another cold, lucky if pitch control https://genius.com/Led-zeppelin-ramble-on-lyrics https://genius.com/Buffalo-springfield-for-what-its-worth-lyrics |
Maybe a great magnet pulls All souls towards truth Or maybe it is life itself Feeds wisdom To its youth Constant craving Has always been Craving With Constance by B.K. Compton Likely, magnetic force pushes All minds away from truth. And likely, denying dreams Feeds hatred To the tooth. Constant craving Will always be. Constant madness Is our disease. For a tooth to taste Something to savor, Cherish young hearts — Share our love With flavor. Constant craving Cultivates taste. Constant is joy We allow to waste. Siren echo your plea — Sing for humanity. Fog delays yet the past. Raise your voice as a mast. Constance crushes Velvet life thin — Torn from her bosom, Should be a sin. Constantly crave life — Spare them your knife. Savor what wisdom, youth — Struggle is Truth. 11.25.25 30 lines, Traditional Rhyming Constant Craving credits K.D. Lang, a voice with song from our past about yearning, as I take a broad approach here. |
| Apologies if you’ve arrived outside this community to read the blog I’ve linked. I’m looking for a better venue to ‘be public’ for reasons I’m sure to address if I ever re-arrive, yet again…hide out? That’s to say I’ve grown so tired of the world, I’m stuck roosting in a limitless void. Sounds oxymoronic but like an abyss. I can wade in these waters alone and splash as much as I want in an absence of what? Class? (wavelength) Teacher is pointing swastika at the chalkboard nowadays. I don’t even own a horse. Where is this metaphor going but down with what? Class? Down with (a yank). That’s write. Yup, I said write. It’s homophonic life that always has a way of befouling conversation understanding, or giving us another “Dad joke” and groan. I’ll enter each arena at once at the speed of…what? I actually don’t know…my effect on humanity other than as horror vacuii. I got stuck in a science lab as an experiment turned mutant and got locked in with a broken transmitter that seems to think it knows what it’s writing while observing the cliché. Tortured? No. Why would you ask? I’m just, A Citizen Reporter 11.26.25 If I’ve erred, I’ll be back to edit. Now, to prepare for a reason to be thankful tomorrow? No. What makes you ask? I mixed up the Narrative IDs in a hat. I play both parts. Who do I get to be next time? Projectionist Circumpolar Star… Sees you. Do you see me? *shines brighter* Nope I had to get myself tested. Mom was in denial. Making use of neurological dysfunction with an ear for words and imaginative stories. I just can’t write…gud. Sorry you had to read all that, reason for hesitance. |
Since The Invention Of The Dialog Box interchangeable stories fed, stir dreams Breathing, in and out of the white room, Perspective gives color, bleeding. Messy, live scrawlings drip from my face — Tap-tap-tappings, downstream descend toward A winter solstice freezing — flutterings Fly away from my verbal equinox. Reverbed echoes can be heard, Indistinguishable yet to all but One Who translates, relates to the white room — A clean box where a powerful mind force-flexes. (10) Frost lays heavy icing on frozen terrain. They come and go in haste — no time to waste. Many white seasons damage…vocal cords, long past reasoning. Temporary death performs not, locked in permafrost. What taunts me on many horizons? In white rooms where we could all go stare out windows, sight snow shuddering meadows, until warm revival? The mantle soul, kindled with virtue nurtured, I’d sacrifice blood into each room eternally — My heart in bloom. Cold breath exhilarated, cools (20) Overheating, brimming nucleus fed into the otherwise Ordinary. A slow, patient scene is but paint we wait. Thumbs cartwheel, but also percuss beats timing dreaming. Restrain no ink for pale imagination, nor hate This white vocation. Supply your soul tender music, Ascension in rainbows gleaming on shared ceilings. White is safe, is sure, but daring lives better. Bring your stones worth heaving to the bottom Of an empty, dying lake. I’ll supply thirst to slake Harmony long past renewal, reflections rolling (30) Deep into our seasons, an eternal tide of my love. I’m in your white box, painting hollow rainbows With stories of my life, and the one yet lived. This vocation we share echoes in dark, into arrival. Bleeding, in and out of the white room, Perspective gives color, still breathing. 11.18.25, 12.13.25, tightened, modified theme, adds lyrical and modifiers to infuse color and image 36 lines The above: Just opened a window after one random YouTube click that redirected thoughts to seek epiphany. God sends me messages of love. AI gives note and instruction, while I laugh at my ignorant child…trying yet. I could make this rhyming, maybe extract something to share for traditionalists. Whenever I tighten up, I delete, leave edited fragments. (Avoided this time) I can accept God, better than the alternative… Manipulation from all cult-like organizations also offer (unwittingly?) prosperity for our own convictions — Love foremost, virtue cuts through torment. Hate does not set my sail but could send a worthy adversary. Challenges are how we choose to live. Never fold. Never, ever. Writers save humanity, the earth, with every key click, wrist twist, with toils of our minds’ love labor. I support all but propaganda and those ruled by it to get my wary eye. You don’t command anything, world rulers. Okay, I gotta stop before Stalin rolls into my town. Better writing to all. Learn history! Most here added post final poem edit. Idealism? Dead?? |
A Heart With Offered Sledge Truth is sought, by merely putting pen to paper, but all we hear are a pathetic masquerade of lies — I’d offer a mallet, sledge Might you heft, aim For a functional heart Bleeding out in your theater. Before your guests? The chosen Who might like a crack, Whack at the essence of A poet eternally in Spring? Bones of metal do not Cage a heat of glowing glass. When uprighted, can be, but Not for one acting enemy. No cabal do I pass through, But offer for a dollar these words, To deft strike with might — Might it — make you feel a’right. I trust my heart, it’s cage, But so few people where words blaze. While locked in this hazy-gaze, Behold all of me blacksmith-black… Engaged, enraged, also housed in cage. It is a fire you did not start, Nor can it be doused, but enflamed. If all you have is misapplied kerosene, I leave you my unguarded core. 11.13.25 I’ll be around But things that could break you could protect. Edit later… You can mock me with a dollar or 29. But seriously, it’s just currency, just as US devalues it’s own mint… Built on the backs of what now? Where’s your ingenuity? Arrogant indifference…uh-huh. Temper/response/fail I pity the haters profiled because they hate themselves and can’t wait to teach others the feeling. No pity for unchangeable sociopaths, operating out of a narcissist’s handbook, acting like a utopian, dystopia in caste. Here’s my whack-a-mole heart What? Go nuclear? Doesn’t that mean…? Oh, sorry. Did you need to get at that dollar? Who really lacks dignity is the one redacting what I say to inspire, but not putting everything on the table as a guarded coward. I write feelings that inspire logic you warp. You, the monster maker. Me, your 626? No. It’s all in your head. Who hurt you so bad that you angle for the kid holding the bottom rung? You get boot stomped by that kid?? And when you can’t win? Who pays for that?? Would you, have you??? Abused yourself…loves???? Give yourself a tug. My penance belongs to another master. Lord, prepare me… Citizen Journalist “for the people.”  I will fight but prefer love, hugs that apply. If it takes an emoticon and not words, spare pixels. Bring it in. Apathy + cowardice = compliance For outside observers… Pray for people who abuse privilege and power that are in pain. Worry about the ones who enjoy it. |
| A flashback from 2022 Should I Fly… (2025, previously Untitled) there's no true comfort in words, only actions of a woman who tempts me to hope, believe, aim to try and figure out what this disconnectedness is all about. your voice has wings for you, and if I could clutch you before your flight would I know the feeling? be happy that I possess you the way you own me? satisfied knowing love like this can reciprocate without belief? that any sojourn together could lift if I truly am baggage? if I can be of any service to you? yes or no? Or, all of it rhetorical? Knowing — my bout to fly from truth. Alas, Ambition like this — to poeticize ordinary. (Wax poetic) 5.11.22 11.2.25 was a major rewrite to title, includes breaking down statements into verdana font quatrain, then redirect narrative to the she of it all. Possibly from my own idiom once tweeted about ambition (but especially living with ADHD when she comes calling).  Could be for a collection of poems, maybe titled ‘How I Consider You’ or ‘The You of Me’ <<—— dibs here I could write poems to those titles. |
| Just realizing, if I seldom know what day of the week it is, there’s no weekends. In fact, I’m on a never ending weekend. When it does end, the Monday after likely will be THE hangover that kills me. |
| Why Don’t We Sew? (2025) There's a thread that got loose, snagged and tore beautiful cloth, woven to form the shape of you that you now look at with such scorn that it must be thrown out. It's not easy to repair with a needle, complimentary thread by hand or machine — not even worthy of donation to some charity for repurpose, but to rot in some hole in the earth that heavy equipment must bury the heavier sorrow — what lost to landfill of memories, driven underground to endless time. Mother is buried there, too. Meanwhile, there is always some new fashion to try on, rather than comfort of an old sweater. Perhaps, some keep these mementos of the past — drawers fill with regret that we never… learned from her how to happily sew. Pull that drawer open, look and sigh as arm in arm we wait to die, wishing courage, wishing to try…and another sweater the Visa will buy.. 11.18-24/21 36 lines, free verse…newly edited to 32…10.15.25, more directness with better attribution, trying to rid figurative ‘you’ from now on. I don’t know you. I barely know myself. Added coherency with limerick-like rhyme end. Have any gone back to edit and polish a piece from four years or more ago? Note: Sewist This is the modern, gender-inclusive term used by many in the sewing community. It is a blend of "sewing" and "artist," reflecting the creative nature of the craft. The word is used for hobbyists and professionals alike. |
| Fiasco I'm drunk and tender, like a watercolor in my hands, creating portraits. I'm wearing almost a soldier's overcoat, and I'm handing out candy to the young ladies. Today I'm an unimaginable dandy, trampling all the frost with my tarpaulin boots. And I'm almost no longer in love with you, flirting today with other ladies. Today I'm like a watercolor, washed out across the city's captivating distance, and forever forgotten from now on, comfort with languid sadness within me. I'm wearing almost a soldier's overcoat, and I'm handing out candy to the young ladies, I no longer regret it, with which I used to paint portraits. Now my life flows like paint from a damp canvas into golden autumn, and it seems that at sunset I'm carried around the world like a yellow leaf. And in the evening, sitting in other people's houses , filled to the brim with random rabble, I will regret the cities, where someone paints you in bad weather. I have already drawn everything I could, Having wasted paints on empty squares... I once also invited you to paint a portrait, but I suffered a fiasco. Andrey Viktorovich Kuznetsov https://stihi.ru/avtor/kuznecovandrej ——————————————————————- Response (In Part — for starters) Chasms Of Humanity So much beauty in the world to discover… but missed — it’s too late. Only now introduced, know I could never meet you. Your beautiful letters lay open on the table, illuminate, as if the entire world. Humanity grieves what’s stolen, from a maw open, swallowing sadness, process for a dry leaf fading, as my head, in these seasons. Your hermitage fills me now. If not eyes, I die. I want the suffering of death to heal within all good souls: beautiful hearts bleeding good words, their appraised images constructed, re-envisioned and translated. Never let this paint crack, a canvas yellow, in dust to settle — forgotten in attics of yore. Let a flame kindle at the breakfast nook — hopeful morning, early light announcing ‘It is a good day’. Choose air for your lungs to shout in chasms of humanity, “you’re not dead!” Just ran into a painting w/ a poem, read the poet’s 2016 invitation at his webpage… He died at 46 in 2022. I lost him in whirlwind serendipitous discovery, and my heart began fracturing…again. So, I died some more today and decided…fight. Fight anything blocking access to humanity. Fall disturbs the trees because it’s what it does. I can’t just sit and watch the unnecessary devices to marginalize everything that could live. Another windmill fight, I guess. |
| The unsettling presence of a dangerous, unseen threat… "Annie, are you OK?" "Annie, are you OK?" "Are you OK Annie?" "Annie, are you OK?" "So, Annie, are you OK?" "Are you OK Annie?" The first step in CPR — "Annie" from Michael Jackson's song "Smooth Criminal" refers to Resusci Anne, a CPR training dummy used to check for responsiveness during first aid. In the song, "Annie" does not experience a real-life scenario where she is "okay"; she is a symbolic figure representing the unconscious person in a resuscitation scenario, and her status remains unknown within the context of the song's narrative. Origin of "Annie" CPR Training: Michael Jackson was inspired by the CPR mannequin, Resusci Anne, which is used in training to teach people how to check if someone is conscious. The Script: Trainees are taught to ask "Annie, are you okay?" to the dummy to ascertain responsiveness. "Is She Okay?" in the Song The question "Annie, are you okay?" is repeated in the chorus as a symbolic representation of the first step in CPR. The lyrics suggest that Annie has been injured and is unconscious, and the question is an inquiry into her condition, not a statement about a real person's actual well-being. The song does not provide a definitive answer to whether Annie is okay, as her consciousness is the very thing being tested in the context of the CPR scenario. 1st amendment rights — It’s not unusual for those exercising free speech to feel pressure to conform views, keep head low while injustices may be occurring. I’ve known it as a child, as a news reporter, as an employee, writer on the internet (though, largely no one cares) and wherever systems are put in place to play on apathy until it becomes conformity. Anyone who knows anything about dystopian fiction, have heard about other countries stifling constituents, or just some teen soap opera, including internet, free speech is not tolerated. Democracy does not have a place in places where there is nothing governing it. Now hostility. Discomfort? Yeah, that’s all I can muster up. It’s also a good time for stoicism. We don’t know if Annie is ever ‘okay’. Michael did not elaborate further… AI Overview The puzzle-like meaning of Michael Jackson's "Smooth Criminal" has been figured out based on two main elements: the story in the lyrics and the real-life inspiration for the "Annie, are you okay?" lyric. The narrative of the song The lyrics tell a fictional story of a woman named Annie who is violently attacked in her apartment by a "smooth" and elusive intruder. The song sets a dramatic, almost cinematic scene with Jackson describing the crime from the perspective of an onlooker who discovers the aftermath. Key lyrics like "He came into her apartment, he left the bloodstains on the carpet" and "She was struck down, it was her doom" describe the sudden and brutal nature of the crime. The criminal is called "smooth" because he leaves no evidence, making him a mysterious and terrifying figure. The origin of "Annie, are you okay?" The song's most iconic and haunting line is not just a plea for a fictional character. It was inspired by real-life CPR training. Michael Jackson took a CPR course and learned that trainees are taught to ask a practice dummy, named Resusci Anne, "Annie, are you okay?" to check for consciousness. Jackson took this training protocol and worked it into the song's dark narrative. The repeated question becomes a desperate cry from a bystander trying to save the life of the victim. The origin of the song "Smooth Criminal" began as a different song, which explains its hard-edged gangster theme. An earlier version of the song, called "Al Capone," was recorded for Jackson's Bad album but did not make the final cut. Jackson later reworked the track into "Smooth Criminal," but the darker, noir-inspired themes from the gangster concept remained. The deeper meaning of the "puzzle" The fusion of these elements—the fictional crime story, the CPR-inspired chorus, and the gangster-influenced tone—creates a complex and memorable song. The energetic dance beat clashes with the dark subject matter, creating a jarring and tense mood. This artistic contrast is what makes "Smooth Criminal" so compelling and why its meaning has intrigued listeners for decades. Many opinions here are attributed to response from Google’s AI Assistant. Do you have a problem with that? Are you okay, Annie? Damage is already done. Feel helpless, world? Your team won yesterday? What do you do when they lose? They did ‘leave everything out on the field’. Root for humanity with your voice. Redact? Why would anyone…? Shhhhh |
| 341 “blogs” listed on this website — I looked at the first 50, most of those blogs are active since yesterday. This entry moves me to the top of the heap. I continue to look for some place to comment or find an interesting thing to blog…tomorrow. On mediocrity: In the meantime, it’s been more than three years since Peacock committed to a Community movie with no production yet since penciled in during 2024. No eraser head left. I’m going to stop talking about it and find something mediocre to watch. |
| From Oct. 30, 2016… leaf-shadowed crossroads brightening the longer I pause indecisive nearing an ocean’s even tide twenty years go by sun setting knowing the prompt to choose push forward gentle into that good night it won't matter what road I travel the journey to now Edited to include 1st break, new line mid, new end as title, etc. 9/28/25 |
| Lipstick smeared I stared at a reflection they see Without you, I’m the mound of ash. I’m sealed inside my own urn. I lay awake and dream when I was alive. (Redacted) I sleep to forget when I died. Everything I’m about, unadorned, lays on some mantle only you could build. 9.28.25 (I wrote it, redacted it, inside the hour) Where are all the pretty poems? Dunno…centerfield? |
| From the Wayback Machine, revised yesterday: The Somber C(age) bathroom mirror just the right light for my reflection hands pull elastic skin taught just so remove the hard lines — too many years of laughter harsh sun dehydrating gin bitter caffeine have made — and still envision how beautiful I once looked Hello me! before time snaps back. Don't care how I look. I care how you care. With eyes, you feel — see with your heart. I scrunch my face, age for you — gray hair pallid skin liver spots blend in sag my breast a less nimble walk — but a cock that still crows songs from his soul fire blue eyes, kiln of a red organ. pride hammers hard beats strong cannot be denied… I’m younger now with you who stirs this somber cage. July 14, 2017 at 10:09pm #915411 Might revise. Just came to me. What about... before time snaps back. ...to end first stanza? Hmm, drama much? I elucidate, disappear, return to edit, then vanish to come back more and wonder...what was that? I will never understand this process. Putting myself out there... ———————————————————— Did edit, 9.26.25 39 lines now Citizen Journalist “for the people.”   T̵̢̝̗̰̪̠̹͗̾̾h̵̥͉̲̠̍̽͛̌͂̆̚ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆ Ab̴̦̄̈͐̾̑̚͝s̸͉̻̃͘ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆n̴̝͚͎͔̘̰̅ͅcě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆ o̷͍̥̣̺͋f̶̭̱̘͇͊͋̾̋̄͆ Wa̴͙͓̓̕vě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆l̵̩̘̯̪͋͒͒̉͒̄ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆n̴̝͚͎͔̘̅ͅg̸̫͙̻̭͐͝ț̴̵̢̝̗̰̪̠̹̈́͌͆̑͋͂̅͗̾̾h̵̥͉̲̠̍̽͛̌͂̆̚ |
| Dredge this body from reclined malaise — Upright to denizen within determinate pixels Flashes of memory install and project these images Before I write my own program that is not to be owned That another can operably access a scroll-touch away Malaise clouds hover over every letter I purloin, abuse From an archaic, overruled, unsettled language I apply To be judged how it best describes one living, but dead Many stake wounds heal from this process, but one — In a place I can’t reach is “I Love You” daggered in my back. Change the station? Let me…just get up…with these…pedestals… 9.9.25 From ESN (the everything’s sunny network) sponsored by the Weather Channel with a reminder, summer is soon ending. (This should cover all of their channel’s advertisers…you’re welcome. ESN is free!?): Glad I Didn’t Go Out Inside...I view the puffed white clumps unfasten from faithful trees, teased by playful, invisible forces. Outside...icy gusts hurl tiny ice-daggers that spear exposed, chapped skin. Inside...wonder of bright sun’s cool touch upon banks, smooth and hard as pearls, at every corner. Outside...blinding glare makes a driver pull over, adjust the visor and retrieve scratched tinted lens, well hidden. Inside...zeal gusts winnow as spirits, climb my rooftop, holler muffled greetings down our chimney, but snuff out. Outside...the arctic’s deliverance slaps numb ears, fumbling frozen hands working the jack to replace a blown tire. From 2.12.12 Edited, yes, 9.9.25 (better) plus title If an actuary will recall, have you tracked, wayback when? |
| The song "You Get What You Give" by New Radicals is an anthem about finding strength and hope within oneself and using music as a way to overcome life's challenges and societal pressures. It promotes the idea of staying true to your spirit, acknowledging the darkness in the world while maintaining optimism, and recognizing that the love and support you give to others will be returned to I’ve got the dreamers disease |
| Moon Message Moon in October, my sinking pale heart, glow on, slip beneath whispers in this dark. Grasping dull blue skies, douse stoic streetlights. Block by block it goes. A dungeon burns bright. Sad escape, you know? But, soft gloom returns. Full black trees, white dyed, when comes an ash urn. I lost my brother many days ago — envy his freedom, wish he could know. Oft you hide away, your pearl chafes white rings, heightens memory… of not a damn thing. Sits on warm car hoods, dull in country lanes, he knew all the words. I joined in refrains. Savaged leaves will meld — crisp, lumen-latch wet. My gaze crystallized: Nothing to regret. Time on this marble very well was spent Opportunity — harvest…fullest yet. Somewhere up in you I dream him beyond — know true position ripples in white ponds. If you would import messages from me to him: we should join in Tranquility. 10.15.19 8.29.25 revamped for Mike…RIP 40 lines, rhyming "Through this world I've stumbled So many times betrayed, Trying to find an honest word, To find the truth enslaved, Oh, you speak to me in riddles and You speak to me in rhymes..." Sarah McLachlin  ![Merit Badge in Remembrance
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