May     ►
Archive RSS
Printed from https://shop.writing.com/main/profile/blog/ripglaedr3
Printer Friendly Page Tell A Friend
Rated: 18+ · Book · Spiritual · #1149750
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.


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 *Think*. 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.*BigSmile*
You suffer, but you suffer brilliantly. Wow, what a great writer.*Heart*

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! *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]


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

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

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 ... -1- 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 ... Next
May 17, 2024 at 12:52pm
May 17, 2024 at 12:52pm
A Fine Mess

Perfectly fine answers echo the room.
Because, perfect IS the enemy of good.
And it stands to reason, fine is associated with perfect,
deemed better than merely good. Yet,
the mere utterance of good as response suffices.

Nowadays, perfect, alone, reigns supreme.
So, why get all tangled up with fine?
Their expression may be discarded as archaic.

If perfunctorily pretentious perfect punctuates positive response,
then fine and good go at each other.
Good wins.
Fine behaves as sniveling or sycophant little brother.
Good be cool, modifies with merely, or not.

The contentious pair had partnered as ‘fine goods’,
yet few noticed or cared. They split
when perfect hung around too often.
Fine, then!
Good, I hope you’re happy.

Good merely split, while fine
stood behind a perfect fool.
Eventually there’d be scandal.
Perfect retains status, speaks
to the common good.

Merely sidles up, time to time,
seeing perfect union to soften
long-held public perception.
They sometimes coincide.

Perfect, meanwhile, is elusive, vexing,
could team with good
and neither would care —
come together or not.

Merely fine might be seen together,
when it’s discovered none are monogamous,
let alone synonymous, to realize:
none are perfect.


There is stuff I write, and there’s stuff I write.
This is something I wrote,
still and always working on.
Hope its good enough for you.
Or not. Its all good and fine?
May 17, 2024 at 9:44am
May 17, 2024 at 9:44am
Not a pretty start to the day when the shit storms of May come early. Profanity. Sorry, Gord.

Placeholder Title:”BS Bunker”

Saddlebag bullshit camps around me,
spares what it might from the sheathing,
armor of publicly distributed weapons:
happily employed by co-workers,
bill-collectors, raging motorists vying
for the coveted fastlane to…?
anyone might have mad-cow dis-ease —
flies buzz around a hot-light-bulb-brain.

Close your home, sealed within are the really insane:
resentful children, spouse, mother, father, in-law?
Words reverb from thick, dull walls into ears
you can’t pack with enough mud. Hide in your bunker:
clay, lime, sandstone, vat of sangria. Seek refuge
within quarry, behind granite rock, remains of wayward meteorites,
all blown to smithereens, tainted by grime-dust. Or,

retreat to the crystal caves. Bright gems wall eyes for hours.
And diamond, fucking diamonds! brittle as glass, tracked
by networks, hyperlink clicks, the geo-positioning.
Heat-seeking shrapnel screaming, shaming your name!
You’re just a boy in bright pajamas again: different flashlight,
probiotics, but still colorful crusader comics.

Hiding in the tightest, darkest recesses of closet-head,
you have seen lifelong where horses and cattle fed,
scoop BS remains, packed in army green knapsack,
all school daze backpacks, and the accumulated life luggage.
BS brims, beautiful savior of high piled excrement — to your rafters,
filled until safe, unseen by naked eye, or those equipped with scope,
angling full you. Your BS need apply, as self-preservation deludes.

Lay forgotten in shithouse-sewer-rubble, and BS, forget even
who you are. Holographic stench-heaven lower, wafting from blurred sky.
Wisp cloud trails blind two eyes dimming, sinking red-lava-globe still
tempting to dream that fourth dimensional arch slide open, gleam
brilliant avenues paving escape.

Something happens
after decades in that BS hole.
A mirror reflection? One squint-eye opens?
much like the coveted gem that cedes to pressure…
implosion, explosion occurs…and what’s the difference?

You arrive from sanctuary-purgatory a different man with your stink,
befoul the virtual neighborhoods, workplace, shopping plazas, crush-
compactor house. Anywhere, free to congregate, delicately defecate your art.
It won’t remove the stain-smell skankier than skunk, but
if one nears, they should know what they’re in for.

Acquire a taste to risk. Bear heart, soul, all eminence
to judge, jury, wannabe executioners. Giggle-swing in that galley.
You can’t be killed for a greater love, greater good, right
or wrong. Witness yourself. Testify. You’re a diamond now
and black, flawed as they come. The fuck with them.

You do not want a machine head, but…

I become semi-consciously aware (but not slow my writing) lyrics looping through my head…’breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out, breathe in…’ muffled ‘blood is like fire, wine?’ What? And ‘disease’, the hard rock panic, climb-apex with swelling pace, before tempo change, wind down, instruments quake and rest near finish and go right back, indiscriminately to places in song, whether near end or hover over chorus/open.

No meds, one cup of coffee after decent sleep. Aware all the more this dull, quiet morning (peaceful unrest). I’m used to it. A lesser person…? I guess I’m tough? Why soften the statement, Brian? *Up* All…one finger tapped on iPad. Can’t line fingers on keyboard — what breaks me when I try type, can’t see words go up on screen, or fingers, or oops the caps or number lock buttons. Disable feature somehow? Irony much??

The interior of this poem is being written separate…speaking to the influence(r)s from year 1 to death. Why we become liars out of self-preservation. Why we fight by any means for our share, earned respect, when told FREE! but duped, unfair. Told to act citizen-Christian, if proclaimed, held to higher ideals. Or, be labeled hypocrite, phony, criminal or worse for being human by folks who judge…because…? Who won’t risk as I have, cowards.

I seek forgiveness from loved ones and God. Simple: ‘Thank you, God. I’m sorry.” From my heart. He knows why. I know and I work daily to be better, overcome what attempts to antagonize abd provoke. It’s akin to being spat upon.

None other will I cede to without mutual honesty. And not my place to speculate, say from this limited perspective. Never assert…again. But, likely to err. Soooo.

But capitalism over consumerism, I’m going to fight the power until it is just and/or acknowledges without BS any truth I can accept to loosen my grip on those shitbags.

Poem interp: Protagonist is BS and poem demonstrates how one might use it to get through life as comfortably as possible, just worse. Doesn’t make it just, but flawed. (Now I’m thinking of Limp Bizkit, ‘We’ve all been treated like shit…’ and the provoking words that follow. Not intention of poem. One thing leads to another when you’re me.)
Unspoken: truth gets dirtied up.

May 16, 2024 at 8:11am
May 16, 2024 at 8:11am
The Nails/Hood

Nine inch nails drive into my skull,
reverberate subconscious.
Words perfectly recaptured
in harmonic head amphitheater
cascade memory after memory of
are you worthy, did you serve well?

To whom I owe debt sometimes unknown.

Feel a cur, bit the ‘master’ that fed?
Disembodied hand hammered away
at those spikes. Relentless, life taught
where face meets dirt. Do I stay
down on my knees?

No one’s Jesus, or piteous child-martyr,
I’ve been staked, shard-fractures with flesh-
driven, unwilling to die on any mound.

What’s left when deep, shiniest dreams
cloud, drift away? force you to decide
what must be given chase? see obstacles,
you, feeding the impulses. Disgrace?

Sufficiently aerated by blacksmith steel force,
I can look you in the eye with no remorse.
If any spirit resides, it rests, rejoins
with what remains. Look beyond whatever
manipulator, shame of meager words launched
ethereal. Know false crosses faced.

I know when and where I died, repeatedly
self-resurrected from each crime against one
who reverbs soft, smooth, restores whole.
Stronger than before? Too old?

Bring a nail gun, mortar shell, atomic missile
and tell me where to stand. But, I request
witnesses hear you read me last rights,
and let me look direct into the eye of each —
so I can stare deep, get a glimpse
of each simpering sycophant suckling
teats of self-proclaimed gods — if just
to shudder how dark sadistic satin's aim.

No grave, no holy apparition will be seen.
The invisible nails cowards send in palms
deliver no pain, but seal their own future fates.



The sound comes up in my head this morning and it’s the emphatic lines from ann artist who decries the hapless sheeple nations. And yet, the simplest cliche questions emphasized by a haunted voice and cacophony of arranged, punctuated music does as little good as Bono (unless you credit him for Mandela’s release and brief reign). Better tune than ‘Feed The World’.

My Immortal always plays on the flip side, if not memorializing, self-healing, where your pale pity will not suffice.

I provide my own shroud of words that testify a lamb can be slaughtered more than once and still have an ounce of blood not drained into your chalets.

Metal Cased
Hood up, lights down.
I’ll suck on that straw before that next round…

P.S., no one is your master. You can set yourself free and remain healed. If it feeds you, eat if you must. Don’t lend loyalty to the owner who does not embraced you as equal.
Respect is emboldening. Given eyes and ears to earn a heart as friend is endearing. To enter a contractual obligation to embark on new journeys together decides the other’s fate.
Fate. Fuck it up brilliantly, if all fails.
May 15, 2024 at 11:17am
May 15, 2024 at 11:17am
The Rising Days

Days our weather changed, soaring 30 degrees hotter, and climbing
past noon, we tucked long pants in sleeves of light jackets, their arms
loosely hugged our waists where dared hike. I ran faster than you,
but waited up, when you called me back, slow down. I encouraged
you higher. But, with no lemonade left, sandwiches gone by nine,
your interest declined. We snacked on strawberries instead, hiding
below red-tinted camouflage leaves, beneath parabolic-strung power lines.

Black wire navigated our summer lives from from camp trail to hidden creek
alongside that lonesome stretch of tar. Her beloved cattail sought, spied
in hopes of uncovering love and what it hides. Slip shoes swamp green
and muck black, stomped off what didn’t stick on dry reeds. Running
out of time, this alluring remote place hid time with her rules, and you left.
Only the sky wouldn’t eternally illuminate before I ventured alone on my own.

Punishment for this strange fascination to spaces unknown did not bar
a sun bleached and red boy, trotting in and out of that 50-acre wood.

still raw, not fully conceived

Not like many of you when so enthralled that ADHD sent me with every new notion,
a bright-eyed Angel who would trace each scene to the next in search of love like truth
in days of innocence and the arrogant ignorance slowly rendering hard a misguided heart.
It still resides, because the man always entertains an adventurous, aimless boy seeking,
who’d do anything for a true friend who shares a similar passion like love.

May 14, 2024 at 5:00pm
May 14, 2024 at 5:00pm
White Winged (revised as prose poetry)
from the pandemic

I hope you know darling I can't be the wild garden butterfly haphazardly flapping white wings
before your aromatic hyacinth, lily of the valley bell sprays, amid Spring tulips daring symmetry.
Other hand-me-down heirlooms long tender hands to weed, divide, surround your beautiful, wide eyes
envisioning eternal symphony nearing like infinity.

In an instant, we are taken by nature. Gnawing hare, herbivorous hoppers and humpback haulers
inch close with voracious appetites - like mine - consume collected bounty of beauty, too.

I'll be white-winged wherever you are, flow, but separate from our past, move beyond, fade forgotten
into your blue, clouded vault of mystery - beyond yellow dust of towering pine, swaying, judging —
worship ash ground, soil mix, ever-loving, always nurturing shared desire of blooms opening.

Graceful, garden butterflies return — kiss you — and your unsuspecting love labor.

The most beautiful melody at memorial you can't hear plays in an empty row, eternally alone.
You clutch my hand, as if knowing my suffering heals your own. In bed each night, in earth silence, know
you tenderly clutch my soul's remains.

Sometime in 2020
May 14, 2024 at 4:49pm
May 14, 2024 at 4:49pm
Hunting All Over Again

tell me to stop writing poetry, this useless mind-fuckery, the all consuming journey
to self-discovery through artless muses, crafted by idle hands from a troubled mind,
as life could suck the yolk from a man. aiming and pointing these words at the world,
is like shooting at woodpeckers that go round and round the bark, so i can blast a stubborn tree
with the hand-me-down, 4-10 gauge-whatever-shotgun given one winter to drive deer
toward his blind.

in a white out, i fired and fired at the annoying bird echoing his labor in that pine edging my trail –
pristine morning path to shack where he sat, drank coffee, read porno he thought hid. did he wonder
about all that firing from a feckless, flanneled, fifteen-year-old without a red trappers hat to own?

dry, because of bread bags he put on my feet to protect tight boots with holes – damaged
from kicking too much snow and ice. my invisible march clomped toward him, he with loaded,
high caliber rifle. his long, metal casings could pierce an animal my size and put me down, put him
out of misery from a meandering boy zigzagging through hovering wood, bored with setting fires,
releasing my groggy summer bees collected in Bell jars, or severing little brother's thumb
with hedge shears.

took way too long to arrive, dispensing every shell i could load, before deciding throw away the gun
before i kill someone and returned to camp to clutch a pen, circle and combine jumbled letters into visions
to soothe an aching head, throbbing again; find another way to put meat on the table.

life's not as easy as a gun.

Now just 20 lines!
5.13.24 restructured as prose poem for publication seeking justified prose poetry.
May 14, 2024 at 4:39pm
May 14, 2024 at 4:39pm
Rigid-stiff, green-sieve-bows lift,
sift snow high on mountain pine.

Thinking of:

February's goodbye  (E)
It dozes in a dream of cave bear and crocus, breathing false mist on mountain meadows...
#1539457 by Kåre Enga in Montana

Riffing off this, maybe present an approach from the visual inspiration to see what words tumble down the branches.


I also have dyslexia of numbers. Spelling of every word in the English language is memorized.
May 12, 2024 at 11:50pm
May 12, 2024 at 11:50pm
The Barking Kafka Postulate

Kafka’s gun is barking at me.
I think I’m gonna go off in the second act.
What’s my motivation?
Ask the author of me who improvises all things,
provokes and manipulates me into action.
I could kill my puppeteer,
but then I’d be dead.
And would I be resurrected for the matinee?
Hoping for writer’s block.
I should get out of bed.


Writ in a few moments, not fully realized. Just like a barking Kafka gun.

May 12, 2024 at 1:08am
May 12, 2024 at 1:08am
…and stumbled in early day (series?)

Down the hill we run, stumble, fall —
tumble, roll, get up, run
to the meadow, amid the flora,
wild as us, where we play.
Still tumble, fall down, early day.

Bee stung, we run up the mound
to mother. she packs sun burnt skin
in mud to ease the pain.

With a band-aid and a pat,
told, ‘go outside. It’s a nice day.’

We wouldn’t want to waste the sun,
where we climb, granite bluff.
tug at moss, salamanders scurry away.

In dense wood, red-faced sweaty mopheads,
chasing tree toads, hopping fern to fern.
Few caught, in pockets shoved.

We hear her holler, and we run
past pines, up the walk, deposit shoes
relieved of sand, by the steps
of the sheltered truck.

We can’t sit just yet.
In the kitchen, In our skivvies,
she picks them off, one by one.
We’re barely bitten by anchored bugs.

Dad pretends to eat one,
then it’s lunch.

5.12.24 really, midnight

For my departed brother and upcoming celebration of life

When your sight-impaired, thick fingered with tablet while inspired…nothing
gets in the way. Give me a blindfold, tie my hands, I’ll peck with my nose. Meh on talk-to-text.
May 11, 2024 at 10:22pm
May 11, 2024 at 10:22pm
I haven’t worked out all the tpyos

Impulse Control

One minute I’m trying to do something,
the next minute I’m trying to do something,
and it just goes on like that.

One time, I realized I was in the moment.
So, I looked around to see if I had found God,
wandered and got lost,
and haven’t found my way back since.

I’ll get a selfie if it happens again,
record the moment.

What? I should just remain still and enjoy it,
let it wash over me like a shower?
Gee, I hope it’s not someplace cold or public.
No one wants to see me naked.

Nirvana would be nice, though,
if Kurt Cobain wasn’t dead.

I had two thoughts at the same time once.
They refused to collaborate.

I get why dogs chase postal employees
or squirrels, and cars.
But what’s the deal with them hating cats?
I think it’s the other way around,

because cats probably prefer the Foo Fighters.
*Think* (book title idea: Dogs Jam With Nirvana…)

How’s it going Dave Grahl.
Sad when NBC replaced your song.
Then brought it back, but too late.
Ed was never the same again.

I think when we find love
the world ends, fades to black.
Ed knows what I’m talking about.
Dogs, too. They like the Police.

Always in pursuit.

Hey Sting, or are you Stung now?
To do do do. Ta da da da.
That’s all I wanted to say.

Is there a lyric to dummy translator on Google,
or the other away around?
I need to fix my poem.
I’ll edit later.

What a minute.
There’s a dog staring at me.
The cat is looking at me like:
just don’t do it.
Or, it went to sleep. Can’t tell.

Oh well, another epiphany
is around the corner.
Just don’t want to get caught
with my pants down.

I’m getting better
with navigating the sharp corners,
even when eye
don’t see them coming.

I should have ended well before

What’s the line limit, Kenneth? (think I just got hit with something)
Rather, 53.
For actuarial Porpoises.

Something I worked up, since a thought.
I like the Eagles Of Death Metal now,
or yesterday.
What’s today?

You can’t just write something with line breaks
and call it poetry?
Poetry is in motion
always, somewhere.
Think it’s Physics.
Einstein could
work out the math to prove
the Big Bang offspring of my mind
as more than theory
or my relative.

Can I stop now?
Only 23 hours and fifty minutes left, when it continues again.
You get in my head and see why I’m a flake.
But not a snowflake.
I think people don’t like those.
Gets too heavy to shovel
like these words,
prose poetry?

P.S., you know what takes longer than coming up with this?
ML Writing

Should I add color, italics, dropnotes?
My iPad just shuddered, or my forefinger. Can’t tell which.
Probably conspiring against me.
At least I have the cloud.
I think it’s going to rain.
Good God, man!
I think that means…(digitalis interuptus veritas)

If I separate my body from my head,
what do you think spills out?
Blood. It’s blood. Right? More — words? No, blood. Final answer.
I feel good about this. Sorry, sorry. I’m going.

He blessed me with my wife of 29 years this summer.

Okay, it took 20 minutes. ML less than five.
Will I get my life back?

How’s my run-ons, Mom?
She wasn’t listening. Guess I’ll just have to repeat…
May 10, 2024 at 9:50pm
May 10, 2024 at 9:50pm
Let’s see if I can finish this notion written in the truck …

Metal conformity
hones of brittle blade.
Grind on a Whet stone, tool,
implemented by butchers’ carving up the slaughter,
bullet brain heads severed, bodies relent blood. Separated hog
produces the desired cuts, packaged in neat paper taped shut.
Seal that fresh meat in your freezers moms, serve
to your hungry, craven children told
vegetables are better,

yet, harder to raise, process, package,
if not salted away, thawed in your careless microwave —
imploded and exploded protein with green-spear-shrapnel,
mother wipes all clean with rubber gloves and bleach.

Now, Go outside and play.
It’s a nice day,

after we’ve devoured thankless sacrifice,
the oinkless.

5.1.24 impetus
5.10.24, mostly structure, adding almost all of final two verses to include conclusion-producing title.

Tap-tap, tap-tap went the finger-poked tablet.
Reminder: trim nails.
May 10, 2024 at 8:13am
May 10, 2024 at 8:13am
Unnecessary Burden

I am…like
fucking Atlas over here
shouldering a spinning, magnetic mass —
counterintuitive black hole rejector —
told stand aside, shut it, yet
my grimace draws judicious stares,
blinking sycophants,
angular posturing of the
‘I’m trying to get something done over here’,
adding audible groans, ready to instruct
to accept the obligated debt of a boulder
grinding my scalp daily,

while passersby shove, shoulder,
spat upon by those quick and dead, seem to have lived more — taxed more
(firmest grip of shared “reality”) —
than a carny fool who dares
be their spectacle-shadow, unable
to accept patronizing, proffered pity equal to contempt
on her scale —

sacrificial ineptitude, waste of a true immaculate embryo
to his wayward-sputtered seeds —
grow to bear this weight for no one I’ve ever met,
but they sidle, shuffle past without a look,
suckle-savor that plastic, white coffee dispenser,
it’s lingering steam blown out,
wisp of last harvested vintage processed,
from some Colombian hillside hauled across a treacherous divide,
to consume each brown beans’ last exhaust —

that earth consuming cup sinks our sea heavily,
jars my arthritic, osteo-vertebrae decay.

I have no choice.
What could those meek do, but
hope scripture true, pray to not join an aisle
from stiff-dead, wood pews audible ache, trail
to that bully’s pulpit in silent remorse.

Accumulated history of negative input
that would launch a thousand underworld vampires,
living off the degrading cells of my anatomy,
sparked as your green mountain despiser of seasonal tidings,
find truer love in self-worth and yet prompted
like a socialist to serve some common…

not a storybook any child should recitate, not fake enough?

Swallowing a bilge of mixed apathy, concealed aggression,
convert into this new energy,
when I toss a dense rock. My hurl
does not aim, cannot consider your fate, but
the discard of sacrifice to the elitists who suck
mother’s teat, slobbering, ghoulish as a younger sibling
ready to gesticulate at anything as transgression,
hoard all snack … left with none.


and that’s where I ended

I consort with what I shouldn’t … and here I am.

Ignore the following (unworthy):

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

For quill 2021 winners

Poetic Referendum(s) On Life  (18+)
10k views, 2x BestPoetryCollection. A nothing from nowhere cast words to a world wide wind
#1149750 by Brian K Cognitive Dissonance

My feelings about awards documented long ago with early life struggles that manage to still manifest now.

Ego doesn’t preen now, but staunchly defends.

I check my reflection more than once daily, with the clearest reflection allowed amidst obstacles.
May 8, 2024 at 10:49pm
May 8, 2024 at 10:49pm
I sang these words aloud in kitchen and decided to write down…

We’re in a black hole —
a vomiting vortex.
There is no way home —
do you get the context?


It’s bleak, yet I live like
a song is ready to erupt from my mouth
about standing on the edge of an abyss. (and continue on)


Hold ‘hole’ and ‘home’ and end lines 2 and 4 on upbeat.
Kinda sings itself. I’m rather melodious myself.

Available to musicians/lyricists who need inspiration less dark…or, darker.

and there’s no motivation today
and there’s no place to get away
if some light should appear
what will I near?

since it’s ever-expanding and crushing
while its ever-demanding yet hushing
allow pain from under your thumb?
and your silence making me numb?

space has many divides
In crevices many do hide
it’s bleak yet I live to owe
sacrifice I shoulder-tow.

through cosmos there is no time
washing words out with every rhyme.
I’m dumbing my ears —
— I don’t want hear —

free will you borrow
but never will own.
others will fight for what you have earned,
smite and light you, watch as you burn.

Tomorrow…the sun-rise
For a moment…no-oo — lies
It’s no surprise that I’ll quake
moments after I wake

for all that I strived,
no one will confide
their struggles by my side,
gaslight like everything’s fine

shaved molecules leave my sword
flash in my dark
glint Steele eyes
full-face I fight without disguise

I’d rather be dead
than be confined in your den,
collared and leased and unfed
Eternal I know but I do not bend

*music*Black hole…black holy-hole…*Music2*
Sanctimonious sanctuary …

Etcetera, ibid.

April 28, 2024 at 1:30pm
April 28, 2024 at 1:30pm
My little brother could not
wipe away my love of life
despite reporting my experimentations
that earned timeouts, punitive arrangements,
to spare his own bottom from the stick
with a fingers’ misdirects.

Anger I ingested, held
into manhood, when realization
I should be worried about him —
after drug use, failed marriages,
abandoned and shunned by his
woman daughter, having blown
his share of a family fortune.

I’m secure in my holdings.
Head up, even in life defeat, because
there is one worse off, needs, but
won’t reach out to me, Mr. Armless —
cut off after that great disease
called childhood. My heart
with widening chambers

ready to hold him within, yet
ache from emptiness.

22 lines, free verse

Created here/now in minutes…from informed experience not so dissimilar from PTSD of yore.
If anyone ever accepts me unconditionally as human, I’ll hold them as dear life.

Brother, not my friend, hated me, jealous, yet as the youngest, most freckled, adored.
I too, don’t have a relationship with his only offspring, a lovely young woman.

How flawed this human experience navigated?

P.S., if I spend two hours in one sitting here; that’s on you.
April 19, 2024 at 2:11pm
April 19, 2024 at 2:11pm
I’ve been writing and squirreling it away because I don’t have time to share lately.

But, I will share a text sent to my spouse this morning…a snippet of something my unending mind could more fully speak into existence, time permitting, if I actually knew eyes between ears would give consideration to the blooming sea of an ordinary brain that wants/strives to be (accepted as) beautiful (amidst all the waste called ugliness — my own):

Was creating observational humor the other day in the carwash when the lyrics “same as it ever was” splashed and assaulted my brain. I decided now to look at song meetings for The Talking Heads “Once In A Lifetime.”


The commenter with 22 likes stated it best (to me) with another remarking beneath about something that always nags me…”It (song) kind of talks about how if a the wheels of a brain stop spinning(,) it is technically dead…if we just accept everything for what it is, and don't question things or stop to think for a second, we're not really living.”

And what am I always doing but questioning life, obsessed with thought I routinely express if not verbally, in writing? Writing gives perspective. Writing is stuff on a greaseboard wall that no one visits. (Many new thoughts relate to this). So, to avoid the existential abyss, I need to ask myself what is this thing called writing and why am I doing it? What are these observations I am having and why do I think anybody would respond to it?

More importantly, David Byrne’s use of symbolism with water. The top commenter overlooked the lyrics poetic quality. Water is a symbol for life, washes things away, gives us life and holds it all together. And it’s a mystery beneath the surface, further hiding us from truth we all seek.

At its essence, the song is about baptism (once we accept this is our life), same as it ever was. And, what you do with it will only mean something to oneself. For me, it’s been a perpetual sense of wonder.

Now, ‘into the blue again’.


Who cares where it begins and ends, jump in the stream anyway. Don’t just watch it go by. If someone is there to baptize you, make sure it’s your faith and not theirs that you commit to before taking that leap. Once immersed, you may struggle for breath and your own life as they hold you under. It’s your commitment, your blessing, your life (and how you live it) that gives satisfaction only to you, and none other.

No matter how you live it, they will either accept or ignore you, but ultimately, could bend and warp your strength and beauty, when manipulators steal a little something from your soul-essence. Claim it back. Choose nirvana with your tequila. Another sunrise coming. Don’t linger in the dark past day break.

‘Tequila…sunrise’ — yeah, thought it. Are the words ever really that far from one another in any vernacular?

Can you guess what I’m thinking now?

It makes me so sad ‘we live’ so ‘far apart’ and are virtually (double entendre) on the same page of illumination (doubling down).

Sadder…the division widening.

I echo the preceding text’s final thought, because all I ever hear is my own voice, even inside this four-wall box of a life.
April 2, 2024 at 12:59pm
April 2, 2024 at 12:59pm
White Winged (Revised)
from the pandemic

I hope you know darling
I can't be the wild garden butterfly
haphazardly flapping white wings
before your aromatic hyacinth,
lily of the valley bell sprays,
amid spring tulips daring symmetry
and other hand-me-down heirlooms
longing my tender hands weed, divide,
surround your beautiful, wide eyes
envisioning eternal symphony, nearing
like infinity, in an instant taken
by storm, gnawing rodents and bespecked
insects with voracious appetites
— like mine — who needs your love, too.

I'll be white-winged wherever you are,
flowing but separating from our past
to move beyond, fading forgotten into
the blue, clouded vault of mystery --
beyond the dust of towering pine
— swaying, judging -- and below the ground
with soil ever-loving, always nurturing
our shared desire of blooms sprouting,
graceful garden butterflies showing
— arrive — to replace my ego.

"white winged (MV)

The most beautiful melody at memorial
you can't hear play
in this empty row eternally alone.
You clutch my hand
as if knowing my suffering heals your own.
in bed each night in earth silence
you tenderly clutch my soul's remains.

My eyes only for the spinning ceiling fan
whooshing away sounds repeating tiresome,
eroding guilt I cannot fully love
until I know you celebrate me again.

I've come to realize I broke the vision
you had for me, of a silent knight long ago,
when the white steed suddenly died at your distressed feet...
when you realized I became the helpless one,
and you would have to shoulder me from then
and beyond every tomorrow until I'm ash
scattered on breezes sending me hopeful
in that morning bed with delightful things
I never had eyes to appreciate, like your longing
before my soul's return to you, darling. *Butterfly2W*

Can’t fully justify
But then, who with intricate webbing ill-devised
can free from our own destiny trap.

Are you getting any of this? — creator of Community, Dan Harmon, supposedly in his sleep
April 2, 2024 at 12:26pm
April 2, 2024 at 12:26pm

Rewire (Rewiring)

Feed me amphetamine
messy head needs a rewire

boy, I’m tired
pretty please prescribe
I’m not a seeker

life is bleaker
without the bright sunshine
supplied and dosed ten milligrams at a time

but quit by five
if I want to sleep tonight

coffee helps
tea's better I'm told
         for mindful patience
         good vibes
wouldn’t that be nice

man, I was so sad
when people didn’t get me
still don’t

it’s gonna take a while
to rewire me

write on that pad: amphetamine

21 lines

"Rewired (still rewiring. big job) (MV)
March 25, 2024 at 8:06pm
March 25, 2024 at 8:06pm
Before The Six Three

At the counter top
topics of the day
where we stand —
words with crumbs
washed down black
— clutch —
never look at one another longer than eyes
scanning outside a bright vestibule

deliver a vessel to ceramic
louder than anything in our minds at present
grab a coat and go
as if to quest —
but the sun always slithers away
before a mind can ignite —
spark a permanent horizon.

Synth pop, rhythmic vocals, limited instruments and percussion.
White Sade.

4.2.24 edited in caesura
(My brain suggested this word before googling what it was. What a brilliant storage device.)

…Yeah, I really nailed it. ~ Jeff Winger

We are the instruments. Jeff, a tool.

I’m actually loving writing right now. It won’t last.

March 22, 2024 at 10:50am
March 22, 2024 at 10:50am

What would an Angel say?
The devil wants to know -
Fiona Apple

At the heart: Some (neurodivergents) don’t know how to act, thus feel like a bad person because they can’t say/do the right thing for demanding others, because it’s not in their DNA.

The statement, at the heart of this song, the way it’s sung, means ill will — the wolf (devil) wants sheepskin angels wings) just to deceive. It’s the basis for Machiavellism to manipulate. It’s even gone beyond that to mocking, knowing you hurt another and rub it in their face (like front-running athletes) to feel superior. But, it’s creepy as a snake slithering about that garden.

“This song is about Apple making a mistake in a relationship (cheating, perhaps?) and therefore making her a ‘criminal.’ Depression and self-loathing were a common theme in Fiona's songwriting at the time. She told Interview magazine: ‘It's psychologically and chemically impossible for me to be happy.’” (No source I’ll share)

If you’re looking for someone to mask pain, do the right thing, keep it ‘positive’, it’s not wrong, unless that person is hard wired and grounded from PTSD, from experience. You can devise a best version of oneself to reflect properly in a society that needs conformity, but turns its back on the genetically predisposed. There are the sociopaths and narcissists and their cheerleaders compelling happy conformity — yet shun, repress, castigate. They wear the skin-wings

The neuro in me is done with the chemistry set, altering what’s beautiful in me for the Fiona’s of this world. The singer properly knows what she is: person who tells it like it is, regrets, does it again, can’t please everyone, even herself.

Angel or Devil? Both
Manipulator or Victim? They choose for you and wear the halo of the other

It’s called controlling the narrative…haven’t we learned yet? ‘History is written by the victors’.


Not flexible enough to bend that way.

March 18, 2024 at 12:42am
March 18, 2024 at 12:42am
the size of x increases with time

before it blows up all over the inside of that microwave.

should have gone quadratic

like any good toaster oven.


don’t burn your tongue.

988 Entries · *Magnify*
Page of 50 · 20 per page   < >
Previous ... -1- 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 ... Next

© Copyright 2024 Brian K Cognitive Dissonance (UN: ripglaedr3 at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
Brian K Cognitive Dissonance has granted Writing.Com, its affiliates and its syndicates non-exclusive rights to display this work.

Printed from https://shop.writing.com/main/profile/blog/ripglaedr3