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Rated: 18+ · Book · Spiritual · #1149750
10k views, 2x BestPoetryCollection. A nothing from nowhere cast words to a world wide wind
Like one of those adventure games where you go off questing in different directions but you don’t advance like the others. You earn pretty medallions gallantly while other players buy, sell and trade at market to get ahead without moving an inch. Slow burn…hey? You’d rather keep your dignity, or try to figure out their game. That’s where you really get lost. Game full of misdirects leads right back to start over and over. You could have stayed on your quest. Now, you have this.

Redacted, censored, gaslighted…must be doing something right, my old boss would say. I’m not a sociopath, he tells himself. Equal parts, then? Mom should have had me tested. Because, life of turmoil produces stuff like this. Not going to call it beautiful agony…it gets a bit ugly.Tap on them. It’s part of the quest…see where I’ve been; see who I am:


         
                   
                                       
                   
                   
        
         


Right. I redact myself. The beautiful mess you made. Who are you?
If I’ve been denied the right of knowledge, I’ve earned the right to judge.
         |
Without knowledge, who’s to judge?
         |
No gavel; no voice.

"...politely reedy but ambitiously eclectic—moving effortlessly from hen-picking and bottleneck slides to a full deck of chucka-chucka rhythm figures."

I had a lover's quarrel with the world - Robert Frost

         |
I'm sorry you got caught in the middle.

*Neurodivergent poet.
*Don’t judge/hate. I love.
*Honesty without mincing words.
*Dump your prejudice outside my door. Hope you leave it on the way out.
*Nothing to fear but people who surround themselves with rules, can’t be touched.
*Real dialogue accepted.

My words collect, arrange on a kaleidoscope spectrum. The true experience/acknowledgment of my writing yet to come...long after I’ve left WDC, am dead, or both.

Truly been a blessing, but I've been pushing it — envelope, push world and all inhabitants away, push buttons to find boundaries, having no clue or told where they lie, where I've lived in your dark. Now and then, push dirt out of this hole; someone/thing/entity might envision me the way I need to be viewed. (if I knew what that was. Cryptic, I know. Try living in my dark, find comfort amid the strange, virtual walls that tempt me to try).
*The parenthetical lawyer up?



Foot free, I’m all over the place.
 
"Note: Poetry: life’s little interruptions amassing int..."
 

Best Poetry Collection 2X, nominated three years. What does it mean? I was enjoying myself, head bagged. A happy idiot. Something messed with that. I won’t be a coward; not starting feuds or wars over ideals and beliefs. We all know that’s a pile of crap packaged with dreams of pretty things to sell the next boob that walks by. *Clown*

Been more than I could imagine or expect. My achievements aren’t going on a LinkedIn wall. But, I get it. You're sick of me. It's how I feel about myself when I dig deeper, push boundaries. Don’t care my words that aim for honesty, either brave or veiled cowardice, flinchingly flung, inadvertently hit a target. Get a back off shoulder shot for asking your motivations to write…won’t get me to bend over backwards to appease, again.

There’s no prize to eye, not properly incentivized. So, does it mean when dealt the worst two cards before the flop, do the best with what you got? Yeah, rigged. Yeah, other tables — other ‘games’. But, something in my gut I’ll never be rid.



My Pluggers:
You are an icon here.*BigSmile*
You suffer, but you suffer brilliantly. Wow, what a great writer.{/blue}*Heart*


It’s like plugging myself, but using other people’s (reviewers) words…Review of "Life’s Little Misdirections 🥀🦋"
Your poetic muse is on fire! *Fire* Some great emotion, well-balance(d), lovely lyrical qualities -- even the ones that were written out of sadness or anger came through in a clever cadence…It's obvious you've put a lot of work into each entry and the totality of the blog has eye appeal. *Cool*

 
Published four times with one a literary journal, including… *PointRight*   "The Tender Core (Sedona)
I don’t submit because it’s too much work. Truly alone, know no one cares to show they believe/support me. Lip service feeds delusion. I’ve seen a lot of smoldering and snow. Try not be cynical, work hard at openness and consideration — work, sooo…gut thing.

*Toilet* *RibbonW* Merit Badge in Taboo Words
[Click For More Info]

Brian,

Congratulations! You won 1st Place in Taboo Words with your fantastic poem, [Link to Book Entry #1027659]. 

I absolutely loved this! *^*Heart*^*

Rachel Merit Badge in Poetry
[Click For More Info]

    Thanks you for supporting the  [Link To Item #power]  with an order to the  [Link To Item #powergifts] ! We appreciate it. *^*Heartv*^* Keep writing the beautiful poetry. [Link to Book Entry #1027659] is an awesome poem! *^*Starv*^* ~Lornda

 
Love my process constructing and sharing visions in words collected (no small task considering personal and physical limitations, see below).


August 28, 2006 this blog opened

BOOK
SuperNova Afterglow: End Of Days  (18+)
All that remains: here in my afterlife as a 'mainstream' blogger, with what little I know.
#1300042 by He’s Brian K Compton 18 year


No specific aim going forward (2014)

 
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 I say: *Cool* *FacePalm* Now: I was such a whore.
 


*Laugh*This is old….
What? Oh, this? A rhetorical, self-motivational speech I'm working on.
Don't just read the parts to construct your theory, as if to confirm (construed out of context) your opinion, mentally-stunted Neanderthal. Therapist wants me to be less negative toward myself. I see it as attacking, rather than being defensive. Fear I will chomp too many bullets unintentionally sent toward the unsuspecting.
If you can be triggered for stupid reasons, then I?
…just looked like me rolling around on the floor with myself.*RollEyes*
             



What Was NEW

Who am I, you ask? My mirror knows that question, repeated daily.

Just trying to create a little buzz, not boost my ego.

#amwriting #poetry #blog #contest #freeverse #award #bestpoetry #freyaridings #lyrics #music #video #YouTube

Can you believe it took this long for someone to put a quarter in me and push the button GET ANGRY?
 

Mud 4 My Eye: Is that you, Poo? 💩 Secret Back Door

The Best Poetry Collection on Writing.Com
Previous ... 3 4 5 6 -7- 8 9 10 11 12 ... Next
March 13, 2023 at 11:48am
March 13, 2023 at 11:48am
#1046333
Week 35 PPC

Week 36 PPC

Week 37 PPC

Week 38 PPC



March 10, 2023 at 11:33am
March 10, 2023 at 11:33am
#1046181
If you can relate…

https://www.reddit.com/r/aspergers/comments/jvt8y6/ive_realized_as_an_adult_im_i...

…because I can…100 percent…or about 95ish?

I will read the full Reddit thread someday…it’s just…my ADHD…?

3.10.23

Why Do I Care (um, Why Care?)

Abused
Confused
Conspiracy theorist
Thoughts contorted
Unsupported
Are you gaslighting me?
But, not insane…me too, or
why not me?
Why?
Me?
Me don’t know, and
why not you, or
did you know?
Kept from me?
This seasonal agony continues…
I’ve learned
it’s not your job to understand , and I…
I am the one who was built
with compassion
I’ve learned to employ, though
misapplied?
Deep in it now?
Educating myself to dispell
any informed hatred
I applied, told myself
Unworthy
No worth? But,
Not my baggage anymore
I like this thing you call indifference
Can’t seem to uncare
Maybe, I’ll figure it out,
besides
rambling.

Now, to the matter of sharing, then
editing and future cringe
possible change
of possible hypocrisy
that I don’t envision yet
showing
Showing?

It’s my own thread
that I pulled.
Unwoven
yet I can be seamless it seems, since
no one really calls me on it…
any more
Anymore?

And just like AI, I’m learning.
Danger, Will Robinson?
*robot arms like slinkies flailing*
I’m not funny
I’m not funny?

Still
learning…
but not when to STOP 🛑 ✋

Think a thing
Question a thing
Limbo
Forget
What was I thinking?
Rinse
March 9, 2023 at 1:43pm
March 9, 2023 at 1:43pm
#1046142
Can I speak to you, directly?
Why do you turn, run the other way?
Out of ear’s shot,
I’ll not strain my voice,
sweetly sing, gently ply
your poison. Why not hear,
before we’re dead
what puts a gleam in the eye
of one carefully ambling about you,
not as rigid as a zombie.
I’ll be dead, rigor mortise
instill a pale flesh
shadowed, yet fears your dark.
Needs
what your light could bring.
You sniff, distrust.
Just want to be real for awhile.
Delusion kills illusion
I’ll ever win space
in your chambers.


3.8.23
March 9, 2023 at 1:31pm
March 9, 2023 at 1:31pm
#1046140
It’s as if I composed it
echoing a vacuous theatre in my head.
What vibrates more than my love
when I write
little odes
to someone yet visited
beg eyes decipher coded dreams
the bitty clouds
forming in my head


3.8.23
March 9, 2023 at 1:16pm
March 9, 2023 at 1:16pm
#1046139
Recipe

Alone,
sequestered and comfortable
in the Best place —
fave drink (coffee am/bourbon pm) to lubricate.
Mood music that soothes, flows, doesn’t beg
an unsympathetic ear,
just a heart.

But, alone. Very, very alone —
a place conducive where none can insert.

I prefer moon over daybreak.
I prefer blues to intensify heartache.
Properly medicate
when wielding a hefted sword
bleeding its worth,
bleeding all my love,
hopefully drained.

Then, erase the board, or sleep.
Know a dream’s worth.



3.9.23

                   2-Time WDC Quill Winner: Best Poetry Collection, 2020 and 2021. NOMINATED for 2022!

For quill 2021 winners

BOOK
Life’s Little Misdirections 🥀🦋  (18+)
10k views, 2x BestPoetryCollection. A nothing from nowhere cast words to a world wide wind
#1149750 by He’s Brian K Compton 18 year


A book is coming…I keep telling myself…as all kinds of arbitrary deadlines near & pass…like blaring traffic. So, there’s that.
March 9, 2023 at 12:27am
March 9, 2023 at 12:27am
#1046126
It was you eight minutes ago
and you’ve changed.

More than 93 million miles from me
at the nearest,
you break away from a tenuous spot
before cloudy memory.

I didn’t have to be here to feel your heat,
captured in magnified view.

Further you travel from a weakening world,
blaze up the black,
blind all in your path,
burn them if they get too near.

They don’t know intensity of one so red,
blue-hot core within.

And you don’t know, I know you’re cold.

I can look up at night and imagine twinkling,
fire-breath contained in memory.
I knew bright beauty, now light years ahead
of a fading vision.

In just eight minutes, mascara daubed on,
awakened me. Wiped clean,
our clothes shed, when the last vibrant glimmer.

I could stay up with you all night,
bridge that gap,
a billion miles away from myself.

Not near enough, shutter slow, captured
one blurry, 4-year-old image, paling.
Reminds, it’s sooner than a trillion, as I’m
moving the other way, too.

Had to look back at one snap in time.
Tattering, does it matter anymore,
as we both explore
the dark side of our lives?




3.7.23/3.8.23
Idea of capturing the memory of something not present, that we are seeing light years away, like someone gone from our life. Can’t retrieve a fuzzy vision like before, without some imagination.
March 8, 2023 at 10:56pm
March 8, 2023 at 10:56pm
#1046123


Projector (Jump Cut)(In My DNA)

The projector cast spells on my eyes
squinting at bare walls
capturing frames of illusion
causing delusions from spools
of black, filmy stuff humming along
all night until dawn

spawning a bright window or two
but I don’t wake up
I don’t wake up
until shook and I quake
did I dream that?

what involuntary night response did I offer
as I shake my head
shake my head
can’t shake it off
as the projector reloads and spins again?

what a fool I have been
what a fool
what can I do
conditioned by this damned DNA
strung out, clipped and pasted?

I can’t jump cut these scenes
all through night
looping
looping
through dreams looped

legs twitch, head flails,
pillows thrown lay on the rug
not beneath my head
no support for a head
no support
none can know my dread

when the filmy stuff
spools out my mouth like vomit
I should quit here
I should have quit there
I can’t quit
someone clip my DNA

before I splice, tape
all the edited pieces that
I can’t throw away
never throw away

it’s in my DNA.



3.8.23

I go night, night now. Sweet dreams.
I would love a break…from my heart.

Rewrite for Shadows
I go night, night now. Sweet dreams.
I would love a break…from my heart.
March 6, 2023 at 11:09am
March 6, 2023 at 11:09am
#1046022
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.
March 3, 2023 at 4:30pm
March 3, 2023 at 4:30pm
#1045895
Wild words heaved like logs into our night fire.
Crackle, wild words; spark colorful fire light!
Pine twigs burn wild, glow rising fire higher,
spewing ash wild; dancing fire stirs our fright.
Bloom-flames white hot wild fire rages desire.
Drawn in lungs, heavy verses sung to air.
Oh, our stars! Flicker of flames lick each out!
'neath blanket, gray mist chill cannot despair
blackness in these blues crooning, I'm devout!


3.4.23
Neuvain (obscure poetry form, French?)
"The Neuvain.

Explain my attempt?
Words 'wild' and 'fire' come together in first half of poem by line five, as a form of showing love and fire growing together. I did not want to use wildfire as the tired expression or as disaster.

Usage Note

Creation time total: two hours, three minutes
because I'm legally blind, prone to err. *Rolleyes*
March 3, 2023 at 11:14am
March 3, 2023 at 11:14am
#1045872
Multitudes From An Unglazed, Shattered Heart
And the days after creation ignorantly wasted 'neath a truer light

None purposed a dim-lit brain before
hot as a broiled oven light
gases ignited the stove soul —
passion melting in metal bakeware.

Particles collided at higher rates of speed
until flashpoint. Perfection exploded
on walls designed to self-clean, except
the victim, clay heart, not glazed or red

still beats. Not put down, or out of misery,
rapid expansion projects beyond its container.
Vapor escapes, creates multitudes of universes
unnoticed, recreating eight whirling planets,

a precious princess within, lone denied dwarf
and micro-ball, center to all, centrifugal
as magnet. Yet, this hyperactive heart
of no known design grows infinite, light years

away and ahead of any that would understand,
repulsion spinning and distancing within
an immeasurable incipient void, readied to receive
its haywire, wayward pigeon splattering —

random atoms collecting, amassing more
devious, wobbly orbs — brilliant illumination —
fire-bright dust humans call stars in other,
as yet named, chocolate bars. In black,

lifeless journey propelled it to Hulk-smash
emptiness down random, interfering constructions.
No blue-print clutching contractor or laborers
viewed. Moving at careening pace, he cannot

conceive all in a monstrous wake. Unflinching,
does not hesitate. Word, word, word, adjective-
noun-verb — highlighted, asteroid punctuations
move about, collision courses redirected, redefine

affected systems it’s attaining. If only
humans could read beyond his opaque manner.
Only it manages imagine if he should steer free,
in a blink, drop finally in her sink to soak, scrub

microbial dust free for the rest of a century.
The oven cools at some point. The heart well below
it’s peak 1500 centigrade, she puts in a box -- cannot
be disposed. Remnants glued, acrylic applied, she sidles,

eyes it from one side. Lifted, lays by her bedside
on the stand with the lone switch-bulb installed
to burn alive her nights, comfort her silence,
when she can’t sleep, touching bubbled-smooth surface

and dream a day he roosts in quiet, like seasoned roast,
or drags himself across a dewy lawn, limps upstairs,
a battle-worn cat defeated. Tattered black fabric smelly,
he is designated a mattress side. She’ll remember when

they convened in the middle, intertwined, never too tired
from heat at flashpoint. He’d bring home the cosmos
in a brief case, if she let it past the door, never
framing its contents to adorn a wall. He lived and forgot

all. The brittle, clay blob/pot/pigeon dim-gloams,
needs fuel and a map for redirection home.


2.24.23

a bit much, like me, and difficult to sort out that big bang metaphor for a heart that bursts from its love and never returns to normal, though she thinks she can make use of him, though damaged as he tries to finding meaning in third person, as narrator, throughout and at end, retelling dramatically and otherwise boring story of societal affect on a highly functioning atypical person who suffered emotional devastation that takes a lifetime to heal from, opposed to the ease of the neurotypical.

there, I summarized it. it's my little monster poem all glued back together in one big blog thingy infinitely expanding as we/I speak/write (so folksy/yet not) and cannot stop the path the initial explosion caused. a calmer metaphor would be a stone dropped in water, ripples that ring/wave out until smooth as glass again, unless crash back, overlap, because of restricted size/space to spread, and resulting mental devastation, but still, returns to smooth...unless, windy, water added by rain and other sources, as murky puddle car tires and children smash, or...imagination depleted...finish yourself...
March 3, 2023 at 10:23am
March 3, 2023 at 10:23am
#1045871
putting down the toilet seat (post buffet ballad)
all will be revealed as I go off the deep end

Mission Impression part 1

From the sidelines
get a good seat
watch my origami unfold
don’t forget to take notes
my sociologist friends
if you can comprehend
insanity on a leash
boxed like a cat

grace is self-preservation

on what field my performance?
did you bring a drink, snack,
comfy blanket? ready
to be in awe? I see

that dull surprise lift eyebrows
fifteen-sixteenths of an inch

and in a moment now
mouth agape —
I can’t tell
if in awe or hungry.
eat your snack.
it may take awhile
to refine this act.
wait? you’re leaving?


Mission Reaction part 2

I should’ve been to the point.
and that would’ve been…?
Can someone give me a cue
how to act with you? in your houses?
none have visited mine.

you say something, I say something.
you walk away. do I follow?
information locks legs that sway,
hear the chorus, repeating line,
stay. stay. stay, when I want to play?

getting that I can be a bit much.
do you think it’s my choice? think,
like I have to — be in other shoes?
try walking in them. a bit big?
their invented adage, not mine.
unproductive.

instruct my cursed DNA.
information, restructure atoms, sequences
so I can come back…as what?
zebra, condor, polar bear, penguin?
I reserve the right to not lick my junk
and have access to public toilets.

Might be compelled to migrate.


Mission Projection part 3

not long. all my rights taken away.
I love my friends who are gay, swing
the other way. gender fluid could be
my style. I’m beautiful, you know? yes,
you know. over-employed, it has opened
code-doors to a lonely, clod-foot guy.

if I incorporate a sense of societal silence,
segregated boundaries realized, again. pain to near.

I was beautiful, blond, blue-eyed, tall —
from cherub to muscled, chiseled marble white.
now pigeon stained, crumbling in my Athens.
I still have my art-junk — I’ll not lick clean.

Onlookers point at a facade. I lied
and that is wrong. does it matter to you
since I’m alien to your race and ironically
not in minority, so, man-child whining
someone please place yourself in my Nikes?

a bit much, I’m getting harder to know.


Mission Unification (keep it together) part 4

insulate, isolate from perceived insult.
oh, that thing flung was said with love?
not giving anticipant public meltdown.
too proud for that. and, I never really
approached you. hope you found comfort
with a good sideline seat. it’s my final act.

I recoil from touch; friend or foe?
I really don’t know, and I forget.
and your name is…? not because
I don’t want to know. afraid to love you
and lose you like all the others who ask
how’d you get off your leash? insist,
get in an escapable box.

and I wonder, can you hear as I talk,
fill silence through and outside
societal-constructed walls? Where is
unity, your unifiers? not the spinsters.
humanity taken by gun 60 years ago?
of weapons, the greatest we lack —
financial resource and systemic philosophies
since Machiavelli to control.

hypocritical inversion, satire infused.
sorry, what joke is funny? do you even know
the division, where I squat in kennel?

world peace can bite my perfectly proportioned
rump. cut through diversion from you’re wound-up
mumbo-jumbo Trump. sorry if that sounds racist?
who taught you to respond that? how did you get
that many followers to salivate over grammatical buffoonery?
your thumb reposting nation? o-kay.

a bit off track. a bit? don’t mock me.
I’m mocking you. I’m going to be the pest
your nuclear tests cannot devastate from weighted
heels of your billion stomping boots. but know,
my DNA conditioned lifelong, too clever for that.

zombies feeding on flesh of your mediums
walk slow, can’t return love, but money
from wallets, collected from demigod employers
whose buddies rake it all back, because
what is life but stacks of red, white
and blue chips lost in the flash
of this reserved, casino life.


Unplanned: Coda

zombies dine on a buffet of hookers.
porn is bad. bran muffins are good.

putting down the toilet seat now…from where I shat.


3.2.23
Originally titled — zombies need hookers

you want positivity — fight for what is right.
segregated, clasping others mouths shut, they divided us
through social conditioning. you’re negative now, and we’re defeated.
serious, you can’t see that? won’t? right, you’re busy
thumbing that river of streaming whore buffet glut.
you’re the devil, negative.
you’re not a simpleton, just human. not positive enough.
February 27, 2023 at 12:45pm
February 27, 2023 at 12:45pm
#1045622
https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/92017/opera-singer

I read this and look at what I wrote
I read Opera Singer by Ross Gay
and consider my own words and ask
who’s more confusing?
and I project your response

I hear your silence
I read every curved thing, or flat,
on your face from previous expressions
of a thousand, no thousands
of countenances launched, mostly fictional,
but real to me. As real as anything.
And I recall my father’s rejection.

I know my mother covered me
in Bell jar confections. But,
there’s salt in that love seeped in my wounds, because
I knew not hate from indifference,
I knew not love from pity

and Mother,
you said you never cried and I inferred,
took your tears as I regretted power given
my open hand upon your cheek,
because of that towering, quotable man,
‘Is that supposed to be a masterpiece’
not recognizing his jealousy at 16.

And, when that man you called husband attacked,
I was not protecting you or your youngest from him.
I was and was not a man at 18, but a boy
who wrestled a giant down to the Davenport,
sat on him, saw his shock, feeling my arms retract
every punch against his thick skull and jaw
because
I was not the authority, because
I knew love and that I loved him, as I told him I hated him.

I said that I did it for you and Jonny.
It was self-preservation. Cowardice.

He said I was strong after that. I took it as respect.
Felt pride because I tore wings off a butterfly.

He’s not a man, ideally feared. He was monster.
And, he was a child once.
He had his upbringing. I have my life.

So, you’re both dead and I still speak to you
from my still room, cab of my truck,
on wooded walks or wherever I go to find silence/solace
and reappear a normal kid, not some undiagnosed neurodivergent
that people have shaken their head at for years, since

I can remember my frailty, first human error
that launched a thousand fingers pointing blame.
As with the two of you, I respected.
But I despised all, instead of you, because
you are human. They are human, too.
I see that now…
I am the offspring of monster.
So, when I psychobabble, I measure input. Data.
Something makes my antenna go up.
Maybe, I’m alien and monster?

I just know 64 friends on Facebook,
not a lot. Can I stop now? Talk, to you?

They’re dead. Audience, I’m sorry I veil
this dialogue to you to seek anything like
empathy, sympathy or pity, in that order, since
I’m not worthy of love. And yes,
I don’t describe opera singers or children in diapers
(referring to Gay’s poem…should you read, too), but
in deliverance of a monologue typed herein.
Because the room would empty, long before
summation, conclusion, the point…

Picture my contorted face, as if it could show…
I don’t know how to reach you.

Okay,
Consider a computer with bad programming
with limited rewritable space and
very little time left to undo all that is wrong,
if a metaphor is what you seek.

I just need to know you won’t throw me out.
At least, put me on a curb, share
with someone who might find my worth (or,
harvest my gold from transistors, RAM and motherboard).

In this pale room at a vortices in life,
when PC language is so ignorantly, arrogantly
but tenuously employed —
I can’t get diagnosed with Asperger’s or autism,
a suggestible neurodivergent. Know
I’m atypical. Employ your friendship with compassion,
or empathy. Know I understand that Opera Singer writer,
while I don’t fully get him. Know I want to
learn secrets to each indecipherable puzzle in life,
the a-ha of it all. If not self-defeating.
Life’s little meanings could lead to one big truth —
or go wayward as the TV series Lost.
Why start something you can’t finish?

Life?

Why am I on this planet at all
reading ‘successful’ writers, while
my flourish of words
yearns to imitate similar outcome,
needs to be heard as understood,
to quell a lifelong need for rest
and actual silence, while I look out windows
of my home, cab and isolated spaces.
I’ve had to avoid you to avoid me.

I avoid the next words on my tongue; though,
thank you big pharma and prescribers, I have drugs

to keep me housed, keep indifferent pupils and eyebrows safe
from any expressions that unhitch a triggered muse-brain
from commonness of the lemmings. So I don't head down
another equatorial highway in growing, abhorrent senectitude.

That last part, I’ll look up. Maybe. I’ll tighten phrasing, line breaks,
just to be clear. Edit for punctuation, space the block-thick text,
deleting a few words. But be prepared, this blob poem
can only grow, as I ramble and metaphor more.

If you understand him but not me (you know who),
know I use that as fuel to bother all of you further.

In ernest, your psycho…babbler.



1.27.23
113 lines, need I count more? *RollEyes*

no explanation needed. it’s all there…oops.
February 25, 2023 at 10:55pm
February 25, 2023 at 10:55pm
#1045537
Adjectives trail nouns
like tin cans strung through this town —
bump, clatter roads of lumps,
potholes the county hasn’t funds
to patch. Soup cans now dirty, labels
severed and recycled, tied
to your chariot of white
fleeing skies of rice. Doves soar
from captor church mount.

I follow their clamor and shout,
chasing with all my might.
But it rained last night —
no shoes for this flight.

Vows uttered at their alter
would not falter at the hour
I should have arrived
on a steed, handsome mane in air,
instead of an Uber piloted by Steve.
Won’t yelp him if she gets away.

We’re rolling down this highway
to a horizon clouding.
Clouds burst from black — brilliant —
sparks appear, rumble-crack
this heart in twain…again?
I’m such a hack.

One more adjective trails a noun,
kilometers outside town
when tux tails wrinkle to pump gas.
My maiden appears, sees me,
hikes her gown to full run.
Moment of truth late devise from her eyes
before her stiletto point plants
just below the buckle
if I had one.

Blood red mix with a heavy wash —
love sent to drain down on my cement,
the last time. A string of adjectives
fumble as keys duty to ring, scatter
where I’m found on the ground
like some unconjugated noun.



2.28.23
40 lines, post modernist, nihilistic whatchamacallit, yeah, poetry?

https://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/unconjugated
Giving double? new?? meaning to 59-year-old definition…get how title and theme are supported? romantic chase, just as text reveal nouns alone like our narrator/hero? failing in pursuit of her, post alter, again, after the noun/subject/object of his attention. He’s alone as a noun.
This is tiresome — explaining. *Laugh*.
February 25, 2023 at 4:19pm
February 25, 2023 at 4:19pm
#1045525


I’m fat and I want to eat.
I’m fat, and
I want to eat.
I want to eat and I’m so,
so, so, so,
so~oo fat.
How much time was that?

A trip around the dairy case.
Cheesecakes in aquarium
colorful as a coral reef
swimming, swimming, swimming,
swim around my head.

Salivary glands imagine taste them,
recreate memory. Remember:
‘have some cake’ ‘it’s your birthday’ ‘it’s their birthday’
‘it’s a wedding!’ ‘we’re having a baby!’

‘it’s a fundraiser’ ’it’s potluck at your church’
‘you like cake?’ ‘come for dessert’ ‘join our club’

‘we ate out’ ‘on the menu’ ‘let’s splurge’
‘he’s retiring, she’s leaving’ ‘our grand opening’
‘frozen, just thaw’ ‘decorate it, ice it, eat it’ ‘just because’

‘you poor kid’ ‘you’re alone’ ‘you have no love or friends’
‘cake’s your friend’.

I’m dizzy now, on the floor.
‘Hypoglycemic?’ ‘Why don’t you eat?’
‘You’re too skinny’ ‘need to fatten up’
Again? Worse than before?
Where is the floor?

I’m swimming on dry land.
A fish that sinks,
too fat. Still...want to eat.

Get that carrot away! I swear…
Carrot cake? Okay,
twist my arm. Ow!
Just another day. Hey! Cake!


35 lines of ever-lovin' (loosely) free verse
in Dystopian dessert hell!

2.25.23
4.14.23 edit

Review
February 25, 2023 at 3:02pm
February 25, 2023 at 3:02pm
#1045523
Time is running out.
Down?
Off. Like an alarm clock with legs.
The grandfather clock just sits there,
seldom chimes.
Trust him?
What wizardry with
fancy mechanical gears of gold
or brass?
like those old wrist
watches you had to wind
if you could remember.
Who had time?
Ironic?
I miss the sweeping second hand
on those wall clocks
counting down the last minute
of school.
I miss cuckoo bird interruptions,
the slappy door of its house,
laughing reminiscent
of a redhead woodpecker.
Now,
we’re all synced
to an atomic clock.
It can’t explode
our cell phones, automobiles,
fitness trackers or stock tickers.
How much time elapsed
since I began my diatribe,
diversion, disillusion,
since I can’t tell time
from where I stand
inside our world clock
with twelve plus twelve hands?
I guess I’m wound up
for nothing.
Tick-tock!
another minute’s up.


2.25.23

Alternate second line from ending: Tik-Tok?
Filling my blog tank. Going on another run until this car crashes.
"Note: There’s a few days left, if you are a fan of fre..."
February 24, 2023 at 8:18pm
February 24, 2023 at 8:18pm
#1045470
Guess I should seek publication more often…

Congratulations

Dear Brian,

Your poem, “Potatoes,” has been accepted to appear in the 2024 Wisconsin Poets’ Calendar. We will ask you to proofread your poem and short biography as part of the publication process. On behalf of the Wisconsin Fellowship of Poets, we thank you for helping to keep this literary tradition alive in our state. May you enjoy continued success in your writing.

2024 Calendar Editors,

Nancy Austin and Kathleen Serley

This makes 4 of my last six submissions. *Cool*
Already exclusive to privileged WDC members:
"Potatoes
February 24, 2023 at 11:03am
February 24, 2023 at 11:03am
#1045455
We can blame writers for clichés.
So good, their devised words, idioms, now over-employed.

Reason poets struggle to come original,
wanting to borrow now tired phrases.
Forced to reimagine what’s already been said?
upgrade Frost, Cummings, Angelou
and Dickinson? What to choose when lost,
holding a heart inside a cage
housing a feathered thing, because

everything possible has been written,
and we must reach, perfect, without infringement
of truest expression. Think harder, brighter,
be well-read, rested when tested
by loathsome environments — mono-syllabic,
over-repeated pop melodies — sugary, sentimental,
compartmentalist thought/walled off by PC/
inside a PC/coded/as we are recoded, deforming dystopian
by cloaked nazism (uninformed ignorance programmed).

Damn unincentivized public education, selling us short,
humbled to comprehend, come up with a better expression.

What about Sam and Diane?
Will we infinitely Fast and Furious?
How many trilogies trilogy in vacuous space
to finally displease audiences pursuing our green?
locked in anticipation of another season, salivating
veal Mandalorian, prohibitively ponder and idle on idols,
kick out any overused expression, scrutinize our own pale brain-text,
fruit of cognitive labor is not worthy of 99 cents? a like??

Why self-abuse when none near, let alone
hear these atypical meanderings dreaming caught
in a medium fence. Out of my garden, inspiration glows.
Outside my garden, no neighbors lean on poor protector,
unfurled chicken wire, curled, galvanized collapse
of mother clicks from emotional tic, tic, ticks.
The rabbits can have all they can eat.

I stand by clutched hoe. What a whore for a dollar more.
Words bare flesh in my flesh. I rhymed. So, this must be the end.


2.24.23

Is it now? Is it now?
How about now? Now, right?
Diane Long nearly killed herself…for her craft?
What helps me be so persistently strong?
I could have ended on that suicidal thought. And,
Why?

Sometimes, no font choice at all. Life is gruesome, gritty, haste. Mixed in this garbage disposal mind-gut, enough toothy blades to devour and complain, spit out a beautiful mess, hawked up.

Thanks Elle - on hiatus *HeartB*, Warped Sanity *HeartBl* for encouragement, keeping it real. *Heart* You inspire. I hope I, too. *HeartBroken* or not??
February 23, 2023 at 5:25pm
February 23, 2023 at 5:25pm
#1045420
I could write a hundred poems
right now, or
absorb aura anchored deep
deep down
happy as any frown knowing
I won’t drown
I won’t dry up inside here
It’s dark
It’s deep
Depth you won’t ladder to see
Inner beauty
sweet as song, singing
with perfectly formed frown

Drown on your dry land, or
take my hand, trust
a soul submerged, basting
in life-long suffrage
Survival only needs
one revival — if you touch my hand,
hear my hard band
of gloaming words’ gleam

Discord, rhapsodic,
I hold you and sway

Without you
I stay

I still see you
         from down here


2.24.23

Look, I wrote another ode to you.
How do you like me now?
My mental health in stasis doesn’t move a meter
in this place
and still I stay, sway,
smile all the while.

How was your day?


And now, Times. See, feel?
2.24.23 ‘ladder’ replaces ‘scale’
February 23, 2023 at 3:37pm
February 23, 2023 at 3:37pm
#1045414
OK you wanted it. The spigot is open. Let’s see what we got on tap? (For Writing.Com writers):

I’m getting too old for this shit
You’re acting 25 again
Who knew white could be so opaque?
you know she left years ago?
Cleared, gray pavement appears
You still have strong passion
It’s thick and hard
burns off when sun appears
catches a weaker blade —
catches a glint in a wink…

Brittle trees repurpose in Spring
Not too soon, but…
too old for this shit
Why should she be my captor, still?

Another storm is approaching
         Not as strong as this one was
Dump more opaque on my thick skull
         Roof tops shudder in a gale
Mud flap drip-drip on idle boot
         Has the sun arrived?
I’m not as strong as I once was…
         Opaque is white, too
I clear this drive…
         dreams interrupt for the plow driver,

and now I have this
I’m going back inside
         maybe when summer returns…
I’m too old for this shit and
who said I had to be captivated?


2.24.23

Knock, knock
Is this thing on?
Understand me, feel me, or just…
Opaque?
I question who is the ‘thick’ one.

You might be catching a drift
Try another read through
Do you read me now?
Right.
Who has time? and
you’re not my captor…

I don’t believe we’ve met…truly.
Did I come half way for this?


My response to a response within response…to myself
(I know it’s a toughie. You can get there, if I was Nabokov, not some knock off (and there, i rhymed, sorta. We can be happy.)

Why do I use Verdana for this…Times for other poems.
Verdana when pointed, I’m a man, or need a clean read like stubble removed by blade.
Times, when romantic, beautiful, passionate, pleading and near weak, but all these truths or some combine to show the unshaven, or the blue eyes, blond locks, yield to an estrogen counterpart. In my youth, I could have been gender fluid. It still informs me, at times. And, that’s enough sharing.

"Alone With My Lioness
Response within all responses referenced by this…so, who’s a knock off now?
It’s you. It’s always you. It will always be you.
Give yourself a sticker if you made it to the end. I’ll give an exclusive merit to an equally ‘brilliant’ review of … this. Keep in mind, I keep myself in check. I feel how tiresome this all can be within myself. Resident Neurodivergent. I master no others words, but champion deserved friends
February 23, 2023 at 3:12am
February 23, 2023 at 3:12am
#1045388
They suck you right back in



But, ultimately, force you to become indifferent

So, I’ll leave it all on the floor



None shall judge, once I leave this building

2.23.23

It’s not worth untangling a ball of thoughts
hand it to them
like some Nabokov
The twine is dense
because of bloody hands
dedicated curse to task

Hours in my dark shell
a lonely fisherman
dreaming bright reefs from shore

Envisioning like some Emily
recluse with intrusive words
secluded in night chamber
never approach a world
so exclusive, hope to be included
with scarred, ugly hands

No one should work that hard
to reveal an empty craft.

Here’s my vine, you’re unwanted twine.


Sans 999 novel lines today, consider this the omitted one.

https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pale_Fire

Nabokov could be opaque to the unstudious mind

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