A nothing from nowhere cast his words to a world wide wind, hindered by periphery. |
...white-hot coruscating genius that more than once dipped its proverbial toes in the obscure. https://ew.com/recap/community-season-3-episode-16-inception/ T̵̢̝̗̰̪̠̹͗̾̾h̵̥͉̲̠̍̽͛̌͂̆̚ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆ Ab̴̦̄̈͐̾̑̚͝s̸͉̻̃͘ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆n̴̝͚͎͔̘̰̅ͅcě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆ o̷͍̥̣̺͋f̶̭̱̘͇͊͋̾̋̄͆ Wa̴͙͓̓̕vě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆l̵̩̘̯̪͋͒͒̉͒̄ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆n̴̝͚͎͔̘̅ͅg̸̫͙̻̭͐͝ț̴̵̢̝̗̰̪̠̹̈́͌͆̑͋͂̅͗̾̾h̵̥͉̲̠̍̽͛̌͂̆̚ You get hungry as a seldom published author/poet/lyricist, so quit pedaling words and just enjoy the writing process. The bullshit ‘process’ of submitting is submission. I hear what you’re saying, and…SMH --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- My goes through — R S = 2 G M c 2 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ————————- . How I see myself create…in the zone Curry Flurry: ▼ Writing ▼ The beautiful mess made: I had a lover's quarrel with the world - Robert Frost | I'm sorry you got caught in the middle. - me Neurodivergent poet ▼ Best Poetry Collection ▼ Been more than I could imagine or expect here. Why Mail It In? In Latin ▼ Pluggers: You are an icon here. You suffer, but you suffer brilliantly. Wow, what a great writer. And other people’s (reviewers) words…Review of "The Absence of Wavelength" 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—too much work with ADHD, OCD, low vision in condensate in mental prison of failing memory. I’ve seen a lot of smoldering and snow. Cynicism bred, work hard at openness and consideration. I'm Godzilla ▼ August 28, 2006 this blog opened ▼
No specific aim going forward (2014) ▼ 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 #lyrics #music #video #YouTube #awardwinning 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 ▼ |
Ollie Ollie oxen free. Physi-physi-ognomy Bright sparkle our dead wood. Catch homunculi if I could. Over over red rover. The ball hides in the clover. On which side of the house Will I catch myself a mouse. Cans now kicked down lonely road. Burden, an invisible load. No games or friends again today. Mothers called them all away. 12 lines, traditional rhyming 1.28.23 https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Olly_olly_oxen_free Physiognomy ▼ Homunculus ▼ |
The truck is broken it’s snowing Alex needs the car for work tonight the truck stays in the garage tonight can’t employ it on these roads maybe we’ll give Alex a ride to work engine light appeared on the truck this morning and the roads are a mess don’t want Alex in the ditch again with that car I’m done paying to repair this truck supposed to get us through another winter can less afford risk to Alex in that car why can’t I trust a truck? what peril new snow on roads? what good is a car that fails, too? how are you and your aging truck? how’s the weather? how am I to care for that boy and these vehicles? I should buy something new We should move from this zone Alex needs to be on his own I could get him a truck move to Arizona with a car that has its share of repairs, too have you seen truck prices? this weather? this debt growing each day and night? I remember when I wasn’t ready to grow up when cars weren’t equipped for these roads when dad always bailed me out, or you 1.27.23 |
i view you as if for the last is it the last? i listen light heart tightening clutched for you i yearn hold holographic vision before revision i touch soft singular screen pixeled vision fading i savor again as you go out licked light on my porch joined cinnamon stick stirs a black tea in rockers reclined, rest dust creeps sour eyes stung, as night hung to bed shall i dream of you instead? 1.24.23 does it end here? there's always a parting shot. the past will be repast will be past in this paste thickening 2.14.23 edited structure with couplets primarily instead of consistent three-line stanzas to eliminate need for punctuation in places calling for it. does it end here comment added as two lines. |
We Are False I am false I like to say we so I don’t feel alone but I am alone We are false 1.7.23 |
Tangled (fanciful) Flight I held your knotted tail flat cotton flow with wind whipping me wound and bound teething a tether seething struggle in frantic flight fight for futuristic visions heralded horizons headlong hopeful to climb your crafted kite surf bright breezes in twittered twilight tearful to ascend as near as far as this will go to whatever heaven now exists attached to your rope soothing tassel twirling twisted up, tangled verses sung, flung to vacuous clouds where are my ears? here is your clown should we descend gently to Aramis ground who is the tapestry? how heavy as a rug what strength wind to take flight in black? eyes fear even the imaginary delude reality tickling red demons bite false flesh carry off as food thought that sailed away before buried soft in sand. 40 lines free verse 1.16.23 1.24.23 major structure and grammar edits Aramis ▼ |
i'm in my hole in my box in the ground approximately six feet down because i've dug and dug decades long waiting for a long dirt nap but there's frost and cardboard won't suffice i'll be ice before spring thaws i'm in my garage be-dimmed with hammer and nails and do it yourself coffin kit knotted pine in gray heaps hovers over cement dry on two-by-fours and there are instructions this may take awhile but eventually I'll be fine when it's time if we ever know when that is, and if i'll need help lowering down for now my hole is a time share i rent 52 weeks a year hope the earth doesn't swallow up before then they all mock me like Moses the flood already came and went I'm just waiting for the next 1.14.23 137 words of free verse. not long. not long like 30 lines sounds. Dew Drop Edit ▼ from 'living in the margins of minutia', an as-yet, ill-conceived book title of aspiring averageness. I've gone through periods of this before. There are spats of blog entries with endless nattering of thought after thought of what did I mean by that? let the exploration end again this morning at the drug cabinet, topped with the usual dose of caffeine. |
my neurodivergent brain spins like a wobbly top counter-clockwise is there a law (of motion) against that? it seems 'contraindicated', yet I cannot get an 'amen'... like punctuation now stands outside quotation marks. be inclusive — exclusive is the new normal as cheerleaders and jocks once ruled courts and lunch rooms of high-school-dom that was dumb i shouldn't have added that strike that too late for me save yourself go to another room before i babble on any further my wash is already spun and did not include detergent no detergent for this? post-apocalyptic title? 1.13.22 I swear, all the time i wrote, only one song looped in brain: Heat Lightning Lyrics ▼ standing in the fields of neverland a book not forthcoming as none will read or this? so i should be fine. but i won't scrub, sooo. these are not the words I prepped to pen this morning: "Note: Assumption based information can shake the found..." my writing goes down a slippery slide, exiting with all hope of plans for what I would write or conclude writing and sending on for consideration, another day wasted in the washroom of my brain. the abridged version is actually here: "Note: abridged version of morning: my neurodivergent br..." I really need the tires rotated, or to just fall off. Poem 2 (like song No. 2 - short) like driving a car around a corner on two wheels at perilous speed distributing just enough weight to avoid flipping over and not sending the car flat to four wheels (what fun in that) until the bend meets the straight away. even then, its tempting to keep going to see in swerving, free-wheeling mastery how far i can take my two ton friend for a walk down desolate, country highway without serving my brains to the asphalt. first thought (constructing) when I woke and couldn't go back to sleep until I arrived here to 'jot down', 'flesh out', unable to imagine a better forum to dispense hyper-extended, manic logic that serves like two pills for unwinding, over-processing head. look ma! no glasses. need to hydrate same day as above “Blur” reference |
Can you follow this? I run to the river, bright gushing, receeding on banks delivering smallest offspring, fuzzy. They follow mother, but you don't follow me to the bench in mellow sun. Patient. I must be patient. They leave on a stream, paddle soft, obedient, glide unlike me, awkward straining to see what's so important that you can't come to this trough, drink in images I hoped you'd see, that we could share together. Trees hang low on this path. You follow now, paces behind. I point to this or that. I've been wondering, what if you stopped noticing me. I'm not small, fuzzy, gliding but sinking in muck sucking my shoes to shore. Can't get close enough to capture one image satisfactory enough for you, for ‘Ah, that's nice.' You know the sun fades. Air chills early in spring. No jacket, you turn back at earliest dusk when molecules somehow absorb twilight-soothing-aura. Who can I choose to share tiny little moments, not as important as messages with tiny images’ gleam on a palmed instrument? I think it's time to go home. I want to be alone, not to look at distraction, but hide in reeds from a world that needs undivided attention. Dishes, laundry, clean bathroom and ready to mow the lawn all summer long, without you on the stoop, gazing inward. You don't see me sweat without someone to know my devotion and need of return. 10.12.23 |
I don't normally write these: SILENT NIGHT Savoring her holiday confection, baked Into shapely culinary perfection, Love melts in watering mouths with each bite. Each precisely portioned or severed slice Neatly adorns her colorful, festive platter Taken out each season from that relic cabinet. Nestled in quiet of arm chair with loaded plate, I settle warm to bathe in tinsel-absorbed state, Groggily drift, dream of toothsome treats digested -- Hot or cool, salty yet sweet, tender and tasty, Tradition lives on from oil-soiled recipe cards. 11 lines, Christmas Acrostic
December, 2022 |
i had coffee this morning. i let it get cold. he came over with thermos 'i'm not going to finish. do you want the rest?' i said that'd be fine. before i could stop it, he poured the entire contents into a cold, brown pond -- now a white magma flowage. i only wanted to add a little to my mug, running over now with sweetness from my son's warm donation. it will take me days -- maybe, another twenty blended cups to get through it all. waste not, want not, hey? even if I have to drink five cups per round? I will get it down. 1.8.23 a free-ver joint Sorry, Spike. Seriously, I am. (He won't remember) just having fun riffing off previous blog entry inspired by cubby's post. now trying five words per line with no commitment to syllable construct. this actually did just happen a little while ago. Still haven't remedied the coffee 'situation'. Lilli Munster 🧿 ☕ 🎃 you might appreciate. I had brown coffee. Seriously, how did it get that white! I thought the newly purchased creamer bottle felt light. |
five words (and poetic license) do i know why i'm being pulled over? not usually. poetic license? i've got it in my billfold here somewhere, officer. This sentence has five words. Five-word sentences are fine -- monotonous the longer they go. Listen. Hear what's now happening? The sound of five drones. Needle, needle, needle gets stuck on a record that repeats. Our ears demand variety. Pauses. Listen. Vary sentence/line length, and music. Pleasant rhythm, lilting with harmony, sings with: short lines, and lines/sentences of medium length, and sometimes, when your reader is rested, engage with a considerable sentence (within the lines), burning with energy, building with all the impetus of a crescendo, the roll of tremorous drums, and crash of clamorous cymbals - sounds that say, listen to this. It is important. Five-word sentences are fine. This sentence has five words. You can have a chorus with five words per line. Just maybe, poetry sings louder, if you take some license with five words per line. I think it sounds fine. 1.8.23 inspired by Cubboo! newsfeed offering today: "Note: Daily Writing Quote [Image #2272216] ..." part redaction poetry, free verse and some poetic license of my own |
Wait Until Whatever Tomorrow There’s a book, a book, a book I say, I dawdle, procrastinate over. Now there’s four of them, or five? Accumulating as poetry popcorn, as sardines smelling cloistered hell where words jumble, tumble out the brain’s mouth into parlor, or squalor. How shall I serve them all? Wait. What am I doing this for? This self-collaboration in internet, inherit incognito innuendo indefinitely interlopes ignorantly indefinite, infinite, and infernally. I started all this for a reason. Seasons change as my mind goes a-wandering after lolly leaves into snooker snow piles s-sliding down, free-form spring-sprung, tousled tulips serenading summer, seething-sensuous, ‘til tumbled, careless castoffs over and over and over mount mounds colorful, as I (should) dive within. And, would you look? A poem. Do I really want to do this again? Wait until tomorrow. 1.6.23 At this point, the gray matter pretty much doesn’t compel the machine anymore, but monkey that learned tasks by repetition until he couldn’t multi-task the Enguish langwage aneymore. Haven’t completely lost…lost…lost… *looks around* it it was what I was going to…going to…goin… Wrote in dark, without glasses, on tablet, no talk to text, as she snores and snorts bedside. I won’t link/share in your newsfeed. Don’t worry. NOTE: at this point, felt an imposition by those wanted me to impose, heard me, talked over, ignored, and I backed away. Sensed the ‘where is he going’. There’s no explaining to gaslighting narcissists who want your soul like stuff from your pockets, act disgusted when you’ve been shaken upside down by your ankles, expecting your lunch money, at least. They are the new bully, who points at me, if I speak up, not PC, take my rights, boot stomp, cry for all the other red-headed banshees to herd up, buffalo stance, expect me to yelp, try harder, go away. Knives, arrows, bullets at your back, wouldn’t you want to silently, unnoticed, slink away from the purveyors of sunshine and candy? 💩 sorry, that was supposed to end with a period. I had mine. Theirs is ongoing …………….. has it been that long? Note add: 8.11.23 because I’m an idiot with my time. Nothing I write is preconceived, except for a notion, burgeoning words that sort and slot into sentences that seem worthy to further pursue, until cornered, no bombs to break me out of alphabet logjam. Blah, blah, blah…fuck me, apparently. What are my sins? Can it be that bad?? Got in the way. Oh? A simple move, or play through with us would suffice. I’m on the ninth hole (beginning, middle, end, or restart…playing through a lightning storm with a reverend. And I was doing so good? Even the high and mighty can be full of themselves, but what am I? Not on the green. Gawd, would I just shut up?! There wuz more alphabets piling up before the screen freeeezzz… |
sole thin takes the road less traveled alone and it's worn down now by just these two shoes sole-thin tread it is 1.6.23 january no boots for this everywhere i go now they want a little piece of me. the more the better. sorry if i don't have more to give. I look each in the eye with clear blues so they might peer as deep as they should into the cavern of soul to see what I spare. a room for the night, shirt from back, last buck in my wallet. it's a game for them, see how much of me i give of myself, build margins higher on their side. I see the dots of worn down nubs all around in the deficit. red, redder. the low and lowered, when I stand up and choose to be blue. Not red or black. Not on chessboard, or checkers, if you're not into that. A pawn, maybe. But, I move circumspect of their instruction. they follow me. don’t like I make my own game of them, these people of rules and order who want to tell me where to go, where to yield and stand. My ears turn way down low, they just follow, know, they can't be a father to this man. They killed him. and i know. just riffin' off this vibe reinspect later. |
Somewhere Sealed I was sealed in, or sealed out, when I sought a view of you in your department — a mannequin come to life possessing all the qualities I lacked: festive clothing, a smile. rosy cheeks I got passing that mound of flat, steel autos by the rails balancing each day enroute to winter habitué to view you in the hallways at school. a ghost could have learned your combination. never neared that blue, iron door to try. it was glass that separated us. I, sealed in or you sealed out, but then you didn’t view me as I didn’t have a smile and bright apparel like other torsos on display. just window shopping anyway, I tell myself, whenever I’m sealed in, or out, in memory. 1.1.23 I wanted to be nostalgic about being alone when I was young and how comforted I could feel in certain settings, and it went another way, and just ran on. |