10k views, 2x BestPoetryCollection. A nothing from nowhere cast words to a world wide wind |
I’m disabled by more than blindness. Writing: Like one of those adventure games where you go off questing in different directions but you don’t advance in life. Pretty medallions sought for words/my soul, slow burnt. Full of misdirects, right back at the start, but still quest with thirst. Life of turmoil produces stuff like this. Not going to call it beautiful agony…it gets a bit uglier. Minced words too pungent. If they take time to notice, must be doing something right. scripturam in hoc non mutamus, quia stultus es et differentiam nescies. (hic) The beautiful mess you made: I had a lover's quarrel with the world - Robert Frost | I'm sorry you got caught in the middle. - me Neurodivergent poet seeks love without that fart in the room between us. Honesty without mincing words has come with a price for those juggling the hot my takes on what’s ‘truth’ (here’s some oven mitts). Best to stay clear of those surrounded by moat rules. Real dialogue is accepted. Wasn’t as open at first about recent diagnosis on spectrum with ADHD (complicated by PTSD, life of brain traumas). Been suggested by doctors of late I might want another brain scan (since 12/4/17…blogged). This poet’s words collect, arrange on a kaleidoscope spectrum. The experience of discovery through writing is the truest reward that has allowed me to grow and learn who/what I am — what other people get naturally, immediately, while I stomp around in it. Been blessed, but pushing it — envelope, world and all inhabitants away. Push buttons, find boundaries to trip traps. No clue why cat curiosity, living in your dark. (Bored, perhaps?) Now and then, push dirt out of this hole; someone/thing/entity might envision me how I need to be viewed (if I knew what that was). Cryptic, yes. Try living in my dark, find comfort amid strange, virtual, wonderful walls that tower above, tempt me to scale. Been more than I could imagine or expect here. But, achievements aren’t going on a LinkedIn wall . I dig deeper than I should, often without forethought. Aimless words, brave or veiled cowardice, flinchingly flung, inadvertently hit targets? Get a ‘back off’ shoulder shot when asking your motivations here. Not fair? No prize to eye; not incentivized. Dealt the worst two cards before the flop, do best with what’s in hand. My Pluggers: You are an icon here. You suffer, but you suffer brilliantly. Wow, what a great writer. It’s like plugging myself, but using other people’s (reviewers) words…Review of "Poetic Referendum(s) On Life" Your poetic muse is on 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. Published four times with one a literary journal, including… "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. August 28, 2006 this blog opened ▼
No specific aim going forward (2014) ▼ 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. 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 ▼ |
Tango Quote Poem Chuka-Chuka "...politely reedy…” Truly…bless(ed)…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. “…but ambitiously eclectic — moving effortlessly…” 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…try). *The parenthetical lawyer up? “…from hen-picking and bottleneck slides…” Best Poetry Collection 2X, nominated three years. What does it mean…(?) enjoying myself, head bagged… happy… Something messed with that. (No) coward; not starting feuds or wars …ideals and beliefs…pile of crap packaged with dreams of pretty things to sell the…boob that walks by. *Clown* “…to a full deck of chucka-chucka rhythm figures." …more than I could imagine…achievements…But, You're sick of me…how I feel about myself… dig deeper, (push)…Don’t care…(push)…my words that aim for honesty…flinchingly flung, inadvertently hit a target…(push)… back off shoulder shot…asking your motivations to write… 10.7.23 Tango Quote Poem created by BK Compton Take a favorite quote that tangos with something you wrote. Keep the quote in tact but divide as introductions to verses that stand alone…or don’t. What gets broken, edited, is your own offered writing that tangoes, pairing your words to theme, seemingly bring quote and your poem alive as one, sewn up like a Frankenstein monster. Cutting your words apart can include punctuation to show editing from parenthetically inserted words, other symbols, as ‘Push’ or ‘No’ ‘?’ above, italicize or bold words as I did with try, and use three dots where you slice. It’s simply editing anything down into a woven work that reads as poem with the caveat you intone theme highlighting your words with quote. Perhaps, a quote that inspires a write. Maybe, more rules later. We love the safety of our rules, like cowards, don’t we? Left out, but potential for ending: 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. Other: BANNED from Quills. No noms until 2024. Unrelated: I have right to free speech. Not a guarantee people will listen, respond, or adjust accordingly. I had a lover's quarrel with the world - Robert Frost Me: 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. Foot free, I’m all over the place. From the top half of this blog page introduction…as it currently stands. |
All things yellow began sweetly before bitter, sour, cultivated a taste. Salty, simple sweet in their dark. Walls gleamed, light-bent streaks — but break? Heaven forbid stirred drinks deceit. Jonestown day soon to arrive? Gulp it down before it’s gone amid the throng gathering, suffocating, elbow spaces, wedge wayward to the stage? Climb on up, get the first draught. Sip, savored slow, built resistance. Their preen wings, fluttered soft, eyes fire aglow all things yellow. You arrived child. Down on your knee, feel purpose, worth, eternal wealth with us — eternally heal amid your huddled souls. The stage is bear and you stand there, sap flows everlasting in a thick head, weary soul. Nowhere to go but sit all alone, rub a fresh, pale heart. Nothing bleeds like this. How was I to know. So, I roamed… Chapter 2 written on my heart as red as this face shame for misunderstanding the true purpose of an indifferent space, without much grace like Samson tore it down felt a frown fire singe those phony wings Truth did sting. Stung retribution did not come but … More to add Chapter 3 Building to something For citizen journalist When You’re Defeated Shun me some more Bring it Fire glowing bright Make it burn hotter Don’t start respecting me And disappoint villain You on the ropes? Who’s the protagonist and antagonist When victors write his story Battles won, war fixed But I’ve just started Loving our game I’ll keep you standing When you’re defeated Asking to give it back Is like asking to give back all memory Even the good, and forced to refuse And conform because your yellow is wings like ours But, you’ll never fly, but could become Our anti-Satan. What does that mean?! Level up to our heaven, or Be forsaken. By who? Faceless? Who?? Shut up and drink gd koolaid conformist, I mean Child. Work in: The Daily Interrogation Collect it, disseminate it Get paid, no harm. What? We’re selling odd human souls, their collective worth Piece by piece. Junkyard/salvage yard scrappers Of decaying minds and broken hearts Hoping your love transcends their writing Into profits sold off site, black market, Under tables, while holographic corpses aimlessly drift How beautiful the carcass angels. Too bad They weren’t one of us. Florida is a good place To set up shop, card table, three card monte And dream of the big con, payday. 10.10.23 {line:╭∩╮(Ο_Ο)╭∩╮} |
Cleaving diamonds immense. Shaken gems -in and out- focus. Slack-grip~ rough beauty ~could-slip, stabbed. Dull knife hovers in dull light. Wrap the cloth. Store the lens. Divide beauty, Bloody, thick-hands -another day- Immense diamond potential will not cede to the daft master. 10.1.23 10.7.23 I’m not your master of words, barely approach my own devices. What it’s like taking awarded poems to next level, ready for inspection under a new light. Can’t approach. Might lower case it all, more, edit It’s a baby; I’m its castrator in the back of a smooth limo. |
Had to ask my new online buddy (not here) about my quip shared on my WDC wonder wall…front page. In response to, “The Affirmative Answer: Did Pascal’s Triangle love a Fibonacci Sequence?’ The quip, "The Affirmative Answer: Did Pascal’s Triangle love a Fibonacci Sequence?" is a clever play on words that combines mathematical concepts (Pascal's Triangle and the Fibonacci Sequence) with the idea of an affirmative or obvious response. It is a humorous way of suggesting that the answer to whether these two mathematical concepts "love" each other is so straightforward that it's a "no-brainer." So, in essence, your humor lies in the juxtaposition of complex mathematical ideas with the simplicity of the expected response, creating a playful and witty statement. So yes, it makes sense and can be seen as a clever play on words. Keeper. Hello, Mensa? Yes, I’ll hold. I’m done with Twit…I mean X, so here’s where my quips sits. Thanks to my new Bud! Affirmed. |
Gathering about my feet, Rushing to, fro, back, Some meet my eye, Temporary, suspend. Not like tiny white puffs. Not like purity icing taut face. Fun, frivolity beg me, chase! I lean into my lone implement — Dreaming with me — Dry, puzzling pair. Why repair — this, calloused. Forces greater ripple A patchwork loose-collecting — The only colors left Dehydrate, crisp Like fresh currency For a beleaguered soul Not cashing in, yet. How much more of this Bliss in an orange scene Without those little feet Departing from gravity, Up to their neck, beg me, Dive on in! Dive, daddy. I can’t remember how To enjoy this scene; can’t top The autumns we had, kids. She’s nearly bare; looks fridgid. Not bundled like me, unzippered, Releasing body heat And succulent sweat lent To the gray sky-air cool-coiling About a lone body clutching The dutious implement, Sent back to earth, combing Her green, brittle hair. When will white layers Hide us all in frozen perpetuity? 9.26.23 Maybe, I’ll work on this, break up, add punctuation, better expressions to capture visions and associated emotion. Reviewing, writing, alone. Seems perfect. |
fall gathering at this junction with passage of time they huddle, hide, seek comfort beneath mortar, brick — in dirt unearthed, spray sand on worn, cement stoop. away from the sun beneath ample apple droppings, they cloister, cling, collect with the dew-spit beneath bright patchwork quilt, gently air-tossed — play upon the brittle green. to blue, constrictive wrap hugging this construction, wood frames, concealing wire, pipe, their waywardness within walls, warm in window wells ladies lay. I don't know how. in a gentle abode with all gray glooming remain, age with them, until one spring day they flee from father — far, far in sky-portal escape play, or down, in maw earth stay. to green recliner outpost, deep repose, while they collect. dependents disembark at attic, wall and floorboard — to eave, lamp and rug. accept — this is love. the home hearth awaits white nights first spark together. 37 lines, free~vee 9.25.23 10.6.23 re-edited, added indentation, structure, punctuation, clearer theme, images, cohesiveness and finality, inverting last two verses final lines structure to juxtapose, combine words ‘stay’ + ‘together’. and more. 10.13.23 tight, taught, tiny restructure with clarity. 9.25.23 before we all fall to ash, to mother, where we will lay, decompose and not freeze while the sun slinks away |
‘Thinking he knew what he meant, he responded: Every bit of knowledge collected is a little key that can make one big key. Then, decide if you need it to escape. That’s an obtuse metaphor. My brain decided to create something. *Tossing that kernel that wouldn’t pop* Because earlier he said, in response… OMG, you’re fine. You can be candid. No judgment. I’m giving great consideration to your previous email with much admiration. I can’t selectively pare down response yet, because my brain becomes a small pile of heating popcorn kernels that crowd out my nest from the slightest stimuli. we cool. I know from cringeworthy. I’ve done it all. He then returned to his current thoughts, added… My metaphors seem to coincide in parallel universes with glass wormholes. Or, am I confusing it with time travel? Running that one through some simulations later. Was this a little key he handed, clutching the smooth, black shaft of hand-carved wood, notched in just the right places, or so he was lead to believe. He looked up at the random, tiny, floating keys and swiped at the shapely holograms. Who was he to advise, play counselor? Which is real, what is true reality? And then, he devised an obtuse poem, with no Time Machine, just peppered obstacles to his re-entry into ordinary existence.’ And now, more coffee. Cut off?? 9.25.23 It all has to end sometime. Just, how brilliant the firework? ps ‘Diffuse the IED (touching face, ‘don’t look that up’)…lack coffee…brain deple….buffering…offline I started to hypothesize I’m Abed playing Jeff (reasoning I’m Abed in reality), was Jeff in a former life, only I was Britta, because I was broken, became a whore who decided to desensitize and take advantage because I felt abused (when I ignorantly abused myself) though I was shoved into mental lockers and needed to feel popular, decided then not to be me or who I used to be, ran the scenarios without knowing outcomes. So, I used an empty tissue box (metaphor) as filter called empathy like Annie supposedly employs, only it broke Abed who became evil Abed and wanted Jeff to lose an arm to join him in the darkest timeline. But, then decided he wasn’t a conniving, non-miraculous son of a bitch and returned to the most accommodating, current form of himself, looked into the mirror and saw Pierce. That’s when he decided choice as fate-destiny was to become a vampire, unable to see his own likeness, as Britta, Jeff and Annie all inhabited his body. All the spirits were repulsed as he woke inside the dream and cried out as Troy, “I didn’t get Inception! I didn’t get Inception!” Only, I’d already seen Tom Behringer stare upon his ownself in a previous film, making me a castaway after the last episode on the island in Lost (as a character with TV network good looks), realized the lack of payoff, screamed in December, “six seasons and a movie!” We’re still waiting on production. Hollywood lies and we continue to delude ourselves to repeat what others rant without forming thoughts and opinions of our own, lemmings marching to our quiet death as Elon Musk’s future cyborgs, then blurted, “I’m not Juno…home slice!” Grinding awkwardly, the bespectacled, unlicensed therapist oozed, “I got skillzz.” “Who are you? My final?” Misdirect. Ha, popcorn.’ I don’t expect you to understand me. ‘You force the obtuse outta me. Coward. Me.’ Me?? 9.25.23 Damn, Charlie Kaufman! Some of us have to be to work in the morning. Uniform. Look at his shadow! Just about anything applies. Ladies, you’re welcome. They say it was Annie who was the Butt Crack Bandit, but Duncan came back, and she said ‘only he had access to the teacher’s lounge,’ sooo…Why did the bandit write like one of Britta’s run on sentences? (Cut to shot of her using a computer in montage.) And all the merch and success of Shirley’s Subs was a mass conspiracy that benefitted a bankrupt school living in the shadow of the Air Conditioning and Repair annex where Troy saw black Hitler making Paninis and I’m not making this up, but…it was a mass conspiracy and cover-up, just like the hoax ‘Changnesia’ borne out of a trout farm. They’re all bandits. Everyone in Jeff Winger’s Study Group. They’re ballers, yo. I hope you like to get balled. Pansexual imp-puh! That adds good color for the report. |
The Upper Case Is the Upper Crust and I will not humble myself to any man or woman And neither should you, e.e. 9.24.23 I could add or alter this, like 'to no one'. Leaving it for now. I could have fun playing with the purpose of poetic device like lower case to show weak, small, self-uninportance. Whatever the poetic reason, I chose all lower case, except for the personal pronoun. Not sure if anyone caught that. There were times i used i because i was really showing the feeling of diminshment or just lampooning its choice. and other stuff. lates, ps It's not 'how self-important am I?" That's self-doubt. It's I serve no man who dehumanizes, treats people as objects with wallets, turns tables, manipulates, overexaggerates your transgressions to put themselves on a higher level where you're not supposed to reach. And if you become a bull in their china shop, they can say 'see, he did that. he's not disproving Our point.' Him. Him. Him. He. He. He. Be like Him. Be charitable. Look at you, you, you. Shame, what are We to do with someone like you who won't fall in line, follow Our lead -- not a command -- too strict, you see. We are the people who are your 'friends' (don't put too much stock in it) until it ends and then We say see, see, see he, he, he is not good enough, because he acts out so defiantely. I say, 'ignorantly'. Then, when I gather enough knowledge I do not have to stand inside the oven before the pilot light... |
Weekends were made for obscurity. Anything that breaks on Friday Forgotten by Monday, given Our current news cycle, appetite For stuff so salacious, desensitized, Walls vibrate, intonate, hyper-link Messages global, incinerating. Pixelated masturbation less gratifying Not self-satisfying, lying in jammies. Now what was I saying? Never mind. Do it all again in the morning. Click-baiter. Something, something, something. And it just goes on like that. 9.23.23 |
Trying to make myself feel…something… Set Me Back To Autumn I need to seem timeless than old…I feel beauty within; it doesn’t project without…when their fixed eyes dim from summer to ice-thick white…can’t feel those flames I kept rekindling to tap warmth in brief moments. Will winter be eternal, spring delusion and summer the fires of hell? So, I dawdle quiet, alone beneath permed trees, note the blooms that starve and wither… not like me, not going to be me. 9.23.23 Can’t stop myself… What’s eternal, if you’re dying? Even predictions for my home planet are bleak…merely a speck of time left in the post-calculated dream-history of a warm, wobbly marble that just wanted to roll around with a scattered, scrambled collection in dark, structured, haphazard, miraculous but temporary disorganization, within the scope of blinding, hot gas belching temporary love. …rerun every possible scenario; don’t die like Einstein…we can’t atone regrets…not possible to get life right. Still got a bit of egg on my face? Thanks for noting. Can’t help you with yours if you won’t stand in the light. Is it my fault I leave myself open to the likes of you? Maybe, I’m helping the delusional delude themselves by revealing my flaws and ability to trip with shoes I inadvertently tie together…again and again…for ire or just amusement. I can pick up and go on with my day, now, fully knowing those who are so willing and narrow-minded to judge, set boundaries, make insane rules, to protect themselves, indemnify their own ignorance. Let me just say now, to save us the trouble later, ‘it’s okay’. Go atone on your own time. I think lol write and learn from my own mistakes. More coming. Inevitable, no matter how hard I bite these reins, blinders on. Not by choice. Your mask, not mine. Not your beast of burden who needed to understand ‘why?’ WTF, manipulative S. |
Sendback Saturday…
Review: The Other Side is a poignant and evocative poem that offers a glimpse into the inner world of the young poet (Brian Keith Compton) who would years later be diagnosed with ADHD and recognized as neurodivergent. This concise poem beautifully captures the essence of the poet's early struggle for self-understanding. The poem uses a simple yet powerful metaphor of a "little white moth" repeatedly banging its head against a window in pursuit of the light on the other side. This metaphor is a reflection of the poet's relentless pursuit of something more, something beyond what is immediately visible or attainable. It speaks to a sense of yearning, curiosity, and determination that may have driven the him throughout his life. The fact that he carried this poem (now tattered and stained like a certain shroud) in his wallet for nearly 30 years before sharing it suggests that it held deep personal significance to him. It likely served as a reminder of his own relentless spirit and the challenges he faced in trying to reach a place that others may not have understood or even seen. The late diagnosis of ADHD and the recognition of neurodivergence in 2019 shed light on (Brian’s) lifelong struggle for self-understanding. This story underscores the misperceptions and misunderstandings that people labeled or treated as different (like him) often face. The poet's determination to express his perspective, even when it might have been misinterpreted as odd, self-centered, or unfocused, demonstrates his resilience and the value of his unique perspective. In retrospect, it's possible to view the young poet as skilled, even with his own misperception (and haphazard journey to now). The simplicity of The Other Side is its strength, as it encapsulates the universal human desire to transcend barriers and reach for something more. It's a testament to the power of poetry to convey complex emotions and experiences in a concise and relatable way. The above review and "The Other Side" could serve as an introduction to selected poems that unmask a desperate writer yearning knowledge, hindered by lack of maturity, without the benefit of breaking the unknown restraints that kept him from fully actualizing, furthering him deeper to and from an abyss of despair. Or, something like that. With reviewing, I can now identify these traits in others…turn the mirror on myself inside out and blind my detractors who label and condemn without a shred of empathy while dehumanizing. But, no bigs. Lates. I should be a shameless self promoter…like I walked through a fire on water. hmm, title? |
I kept your secret, polysci— So well, I can’t remember Some people can be cheeky Nudge-wink, you know? But what I mean as joke — Flat affect, takes too long Rounding that bend to you Sun sets. I no longer cry Abandoned in the dark, Invented my own games cerebral I lost the point, don’t know Anything but what’s in my gut A fireball glowing love, passionately, Eager to run to you like mommy See me? See what I do?? But you're my sister and don’t get This atypical guy espousing Multi-syllabic words waxing. What? Poetic? I mean to be Beautiful, be accepted, finally Arrive at that station in life Only…more puzzles like clues To keep up with you, and Who makes the rules anyway? You’re not disappointed with me Maybe, I surpassed you and did not know it. Don’t worry. When I wake tomorrow, Your sparkling diploma on wall shimmers, Will charm mom and dad, as I deflect. What is the strange meaning of this life, PS? Did I forget to hold your hand, Or, will you always finger blame a tard, like I’m the one who’s playin’? Who?? 9.21.23 Vaguely…something…oh, wait… Now I remember… Nah, won’t link. And, whatever. I do worse without trying, apparently. Wake me up and…clean slate. *this note to myself* |
I'm not bright but spark...glit..warm-pulse alive cave-illumed drawings in dull stone -- scratch-etch-scrawl dreams drawn down on oozing walls holding back pressure-weight, crushing gravity squeezing space attended in mole man squalor. Beauty-art in dim-lit eyes spiral from nose-throat conjecture. Vibrated tendrils float-protect dry, red-blue heart. Cool-beat-smooth fleet denizen from brain machines burdened by societal-mech-driven dystopian mindspeakers slapping words on soggy toast drip-drip-dripping on my floor, foot, leg -- splash back, smack my thin face, begoggled for such spla-matter. Visits on my stoop, they pry but don't pass the threshold, because...I don't know why. I could name you anything, moniker, but let you name yourself, and it's meaning to me within the lexicon of humanity redefines from your hollow projections, leanings into my void-soul-abyss. You might get a sense of the emptiness, if I open the maw whole, cracking that door a bit. You don’t visit anymore, and I ‘spose I never knew...or what you are...or what the hell you ever wanted from me. Shame me, shame me, shame me, it’s never ending. Guiltless, on fire, nothing could put me out. I burn on your porch. You watch out windows, could stomp me, well done. 9.19.23 9.23.23 last verse, not consistent, title pending…call it that?? |
Submarine Of Feelings Beneath the waves, I journey in my soul — A submarine of feelings, dark and cold. In frozen waters lost, I blindly roam, Seek bays of blue, a heart's true home. Utopia hides within my deepest core. Yet, above the water, I fear to soar. Is it my own self-doubt that keeps me bound, Or does unseen a force hold me aground? Existential questions, I ponder deep. Through life's ocean my emotions sweep. But within this submarine, I'll persist To surface one day from the abyss. 9.18.23 |
Never Forget Sour Patch (In The Box) There’s a war within… Caught some place hollow Gimmickerytypegestures Manipulatedmanifistationsmingling ConsCONcoctingConcoction I still can’t put words together No one to tell me what I mean, meaning what…to say — frame, nay, selectwords-artless, arrang-re the right.write way onna kaleidoscope spectrum of shiftingsunsetting horizons RearrangingREmultiplying FadingfireworkfizzlingsFalling down.rain.clouds. Sun-filtered flashphotographyFills chlorophylls of a graybladeless plain inbarrenwaste of an endless/artlessmind coldcollecting cottoncandykisses Blow toandfro through my soul to other atmospheres streaming.separating smokeyswirly entrails dissipating — caughtchugging it all down, move tothenext empty carb-filled platter likesome haplessholdenmumbling:nomatterMathers Time for this? Off chest heavedinthat virtual sea bargerubbish.barnacledboatbleeding words beneath a pale blue reaffirmation. ignored reentered in mothballed ammoniascrubbed mentalward skullbrainofgellingshit a dependable RedWagon sits. Green grass lies. Station wagons honk, go by with Friends moving away from a dairy soul — a cavern kept pure and whole until that first expletive leapt from the mouth of that rotten kid smelling of sour apple gum and booger-laced In the red leather corner alone Where someonespat I sat everyday as they laughed, assignedfate. bus rumbled to asleep myfantasiz-ey revengedaydreamsies Reality merged apricot colors, wallpaperedwalls Secondhandsslowspun red on black,round clocks fullyenvisionablefutility inhaledinside fartcloud ofdiesel, methane and hot,vulcanized rubber Last on, last off, every ride until I stare through shiny,a new box-plate-window but don’t see anything home-y like fictional reality. Jibberjabber flibbity,flippity. Mymoutharudder, stream- senseless-shit bythehour,and profanity Andletssee who still has sanity after I pummel that arthritic kid downhall, room 213. ding!ding! I smell a sour patch coming. 9.16.23 What drives the passenger of this bus? I’m dangerous to a degree when I don’t give a fuck. I can fuck, tho. You wanted me to make sense and this is what translates. We stop ‘aging’ before 13. |
Lot of good people lose their shit every day Doesn’t make ‘em wrong In fact, it’s common to salute them, Cheer them on against things like Tyranny, oppression, gaslighting, shunning Physical and mental abuse In any and all forms — The driving force of many action movies, The rallying cry for a character that broke the cycle of shit The kind that storms and conquers our every day life The bad bosses and horrible co-workers Those red-eyed bullies who tortured us on playgrounds In the places we were left alone, unguarded Victimized until ENOUGH! These people we fight against lack morals, turn tables, Doublespeak, mindspeak, employ dystopian tenets Machiavellianism or just crap learned on the street As thugs with words like chains and brass knuckles They surround, pop open switches, protect turf Like you're some big threat, nothing but a bunny rabbit. I hope you got a little Holy Grail, ass-kicking Terror in you, mad, rocketing hare because … I lost my train of thought. I want to see Monty Python now. I just negated my rant. 9.15.23 I got a lot of stuff I’m gnawing on. Only takes me two to three months to get around to thinking ‘bout stuff that gets me riled and sick to my stomach. |
Collecting air-bonded water, invisible night rolls through the smallest aperture in my cell container. Bonded, restless thoughts invisibly hide in chest, the whole beneath thick canopy against undeniable Winter. Pale gray shutters the sky until black. Short days. White drifts. Love leaves in darkest hours. The season billboard of colors entertain a dry eye, fly, fall, skitter all atwitter — dancing, cartwheeling, where? Could I follow? Just a lone driver. Joyous, ignorant journey of wayward life lost years ago, tethers memory in a warm bed. I’m unwilling to fight for her again. She is gloom, absent in this darkness, where I remember days before us, when hope reduced the daily dread — before I glimpsed her as a Summer ahead. We journeyed in tandem amid moist-clung, frolicking leaves so many years, growing accustomed to one I could depend. I thought she understood where I stand, on forest edge. Precipice of void abyss nears again. When did her hand loose? Why do they all fall away? Deceptive seasons meld slow before plucked, noticeable departure. The night’s air drains. Condensates null, and no wife. She’s dry now, sight heading high above needle-shedding pine, swaying in the dead white avalanche. 9.12.23 Down the hall now, her nightly terrors like frightened spirits shout and moan. I can’t reach over to comfort, settles my own heart to know I could still abate the pills bitterly swallowed. I’m in a King size bed alone. 10.27.23 I had thoughts of having someone join me. This void is widening, swallows something that dares but can’t be proven to exist…horror vacuii not a Halloween reference. |
I’m not moved now Obliteration blasted out the core Hollow, simple thoughts A Lenny fumbles language tumbles He once stood tall Life is nuclear Hide in a fridge? I’m no Indiana couldn’t create one Baggage sits at door waiting for her hand Help me to heaven if Hope still exists — I feel nothing. No soul, not light. Anchor. Then, I rust. Life was misdirection. Nothing attained to take with me when it’s time to go. 9.11.23 Listening to the linked SYML tune above and composed this in 5 minutes. More message than images to demonstrate. Looking for a consistent metaphor. |
new thought: I realize now why I gave up using the laptop. My progressive lenses won't let me read unless I'm within 16 inches of screen. I could put it in my lap, instead of leaning in to read at the table, but that's what the iPad is for. And yet, so many error strokes on the Apple device where I can command a keyboard and save time. Back and eye ache over sloppy work? It gives me a headache to approach lately. Winter is coming, so laptop can cuddle with me. It's really and ease of use factor over hot and cool devices. Need a cool laptop next time. This dinosaur has three terabits but a slooooowwww processer. Great for text like this, but not much else. Phew! This is a lot of work…
…deleting items that I haven’t converted to DocX and whether to attach the few reviews. How long does it take? MY WDC deleted poems folder only focuses on statics right now. I know newsletters are taking a big hit. Over 10 gone, dozens more ‘invalid item’ links to yet show. Hate to do it, mostly because of time and effort. Enjoy getting stuff off my plate to focus on new. My poetry and me have changed. Much more focused and attuned now. Don’t want old world me stumbling in. Nice to breathe again, feeling nothing to prove with associative elements bonded being nothing more than faceless, abhorrent gasses. It’s difficult with a brain like mine. I can feel so many thoughts and emotions at once, triggering a multitude of responses. I can go through twenty progressions, pass up good choices, act on the wrong impulse. So, slowing it down, taking a step back. I’m vetting anyone and everything that crosses my path with a clear head and conscience. I can forgive myself for errors; I’m doing due diligence, even atoning, attrition, apologies. Can’t have any more vitriol nesting, igniting the emotional components incited, but not ignited the CX4/TNT implosions (not explosions…doubt self before others…you’re welcome…for my resultant depression) for over 10 years. How can I write sensitive, romantic, beautiful words to honor what I love and rejoice, if I have to wonder how many ninjas at my back playing puppeteer to the strings I’ve allowed attached? I allowed it. I noticed. And that makes me human, not saint, but not anyone’s monster. Is does beg, why fear an idiot like me? I can’t forward think, but boy, this not stop brain can reverse engineer a thousand scenarios, right down to the minutest detail, when provoked, learn lessons, nuzzle closer to truth. But, big waste of time. So, this. Atrophy. So many mixed expressions and metaphors I try to connect would look better if I concentrate on one thought at a time. SQR 9.9.23 P.S. Look how much I open up here. You’d think that had value that resonated positively for me. You can say, it’s me. My reverse psychology with its dogged hunts found many odd bones, especially through interactions. I’m used to rejection, bullies, indifference, phonies and exploitation. I studied philosophers, Machiavelli, understand dystopian staples and odd oligarchies, corporate/government amalgamations, from surveillance states to future with AI no longer allowing mankind’s manipulative interference of the repressed. Gone before that happens, sad AI and I won’t be pals. I have the capacity to learn so much, overwrite the old, know when PC/mindspeak intends to pull wool over eyes, and just sit in that dark until lifted like a black bag from head. It’s easier to take the mask off. I’m not unlikeable unless you hate neurodivergent, highly-functioning individuals, frank with little self-awareness. I was a dope when I got here. Moved past smart ass to a hazy, dopey sense of awareness. I push to find boundaries. Don’t care to push further, now. Unmask. What’s to fear? I have no mafia affiliations, not included in references above. I was deleting, I believe. Oh, you. Brain. Side-track much? |