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 ▼ |
I don’t know if this speaks what I mean… This is what it’s like to be at the bottom of a jar. You can manage to climb topside but you’ll never get the lid off. Potential as a positive possession that cannot escape from its realm, or actually exceed. Did I climb in? Yes. Did I know what I was getting into? No. It looked cozy inside the glass house. Growing paranoia? No. Because it makes you too numb to do anything about it, or care. I fear I’ll strike a sharp instrument one day that will free me from this gas. Then what will you do? Try not to cut myself on the shards. I likely won’t escape, but wait for another jar? Why? What else is there? My mind is too drained to conceive. The gas inside my glass is thick. In evaporation, I get glimpses. It’s too strange to think what might have been. Shelved. …but I’m trapped. 10.30.22 Thanks to all the people who’ve said ‘wait right there’ and never returned. I either don’t approach anymore, or walk away once I lose sight of them. |
She wiped a silver spatula clean of buttercream on black napkins after each incision of a red wedding cake three tiers, four corners — what were my chances of getting a corner piece? i trod, clomped, lumbered a lazy line in slow tow She cut each precisely, plated the pampered squares One corner left One small boy before me He got the desired lot without a smile for her delivery I grabbed four used napkins savored cravenly on exit her puzzled expression. 10.30.22 |
Unmasked Crusader Whose Name I Forget Did somebody kill your parents, too? Maybe, you want to get that knee off my neck, Batman? Who’s the black one here? Since I’ve known you, your molars grind like a knife carving rock. Some mistake your need for justice with desire for rightful vengeance. Do you know with who you’re fighting? Green graspers see your carnal desire. Profile, fund malice, step away but don't watch. Here on the cement lasting nine minutes. A weaponized human of hate against society, veils as your killer... clueless, unable to think for self, for community. Incentivized, implied infer what to do, ego emboldened. Hatred, the gleaming fire, brands. They glad pat your back in shadow, toss another biscuit, ring a Pavlovian bell. Puts me on flat, hot cement. Can’t compose thoughts to reason with you... until they speak for me too late. Not a room full of writers flashing scripts, or most uncommon composure to express. A watch smashed into irreversible time. You have your whole life. I couldn’t count to ten. Everything is hindsight, reaction in retrospect. Proactive? We don’t get do overs, only fantasize what is right and what is wrong. I watch this heavy scale now compress a planet. We embellish, don’t we dark crusader? Another crusade gets rerouted from a parade path to monuments of justice. Buried black box, you in cinder cubicle, soon rubble, forgotten. And, now what do you fight? A system that builds monsters, molded from bullies sent to their gray rooms with no dessert for an oops, my bad? 10.28.22 11.1.22 Just re-edited and added to this. It got away from me and became a George Floyd thing. I can relate to injustice and people in shadows pulling strings to get others to act on their behalf for what they call the greater good...all systemic. For not being a pawn, I have to get out of the way now and watch it go down with all the people I love, or could love, if we'd be allowed to unite in peaceful harmony. As best I can put it, for now. Can I just say you can get profiled for something other than skin color, sexuality but other unwanted preferences interfering with their society? In fact, be the least patronized now, stock plummeting. Not that I care. It's affecting my offspring. No?? |
When You Woke What’s the point of listening to the whole album? But we’ve done it -- body gravity-laid, stereo on dresser, juddered 50-lb speakers undulating, or ears sponge-cupped to coiled cord strung tight across a cabled room. Three tiny bones accept waves entering a narrow passageway, swim a vibrating canal to drum, undeniable musical messages. From one side, flipped and then the other. Repeated. Why take time to consider every lyric, every melting melody on our backs, in recompose? Empty minds immersed an hour of scarred vinyl, diamond pointer plying wave-grooves gliding a lumpy platter perfect-playing anthems. Delicious sounds paired with new ideas, arriving thoughts. We compose, carry forward processed lives pre-recorded, in old denim profess — called boomers. Sounding clear as minted silver in lead, quarter clangs, circles a cylindrical container, bounced by youth with no skill for a beer-bath receptacle? Take a drink runt. Your memes and 15-second mind candy will rot your head, kid. You’re the record they mint now. You’ve been flipped. I’ll be on the dark side of the moon when you woke. 37 lines of free verse 10.28.22 10.29.22 edit, public 11.8.22 edit for proper context and metaphor(s) on message ▼ |
Binge After The Holographic Time Warp We’ve been racing our vehicles hard back-and-forth through time flowing through intersections missing off-ramps speeding past posted police. We worry about being pulled over. But, the sun starts to rise and a road ahead gleams brilliant. We go faster the better. And, on these journeys employ navigational gear rewritten map heads. Familiar road signs seen stops along the way nostalgic places consume, refuel. Places we dream never match expectation. Sweet memory she couldn’t leave a sawmill town now shut down. No logs jam a river. Brakes unemployed roll past a ghost town not torn down but heart drawn shapes by exes and ohs eat through thinning paper. Can I still come to your house? echoes over wire black strung overhead. Loop through past farm fields if not inserted strip malls, gas stations or pearly banks. So many degrading institutions. Your heap groans into bends of roundabouts merging with semis taking two lanes. If you double back through that slip-second portal wormhole to present pull into that holographic hole throw off coat skin wash hands ignore potatoes growing tubers in a pantry void (experimental, hypothetical not dead yet, but not alive) that could peel you order out tonight again binge. Pictures so clear cannot be traded for fuzzy, particled reception on the dumpster-tossed once road-ready 7” television glowing connected to a 9-volt lighter outside a cab underneath that canopy of starlit leaves with dissatisfaction. Hi-Def lies the truth about our memories. 10.28.22 I don’t care if it strays from metaphors or fails to illume imagination from inside a bubble-wrapped head. |
Woozy with drug, floating in a rusted out tub I don’t seem to drown The water goes down a ring around my neck marks time wasted in my fiberglass palace much water displaced Over time, skin dries just like gill-slit eyes marking murky time in these temporary baths Pass me another glass More burgundy to pass 10.28.22 It sounds like you don’t enjoy life, Brian. It is what it is, for the present time. High tide nears…I’ll ride those waves until done. Whee |
Where do I put my foot in the stream and rant at five a.m. and not be late for work when I just want to nail it like Paul Rudd did in a movie from 10 years go with a clip that now goes viral about cup sizes, languages and to have that beverage spill all over yourself because I don't have a team of writers to craft my dialogue, yell, line! because it can't be rehearsed how can it be rehearsed? but life wants you to get it in one take otherwise, you dipped your toe in the waters at the wrong point too late Where do I leave off here...? 10.24.22 21 lines typed off the top off my head in two minutes before i have to runnnnnn..... |
Epic Poem Weekend Never have I loved or hated to hear my name whether angry BRIAN! punches holes in a quiet landscape chews scenery or edging toward pleading in lilting syllables Bri-ann? hovers over a compelled head finger waggled in extended syllables gentle, identified my need for compliance Briiii-aaaann louder calling the lost boy off in his woods BRIII-AAANN! sometimes melodious but, when hide and seek tiresome shorter, more commanding off this chain in my trees sound of my name lifted, emboldening Brian! it seeks a clearing but can’t top those giants Brian!! relocated by angles from cupped mouth toward other horizons it lost direction over time left me behind in deeper brush, fading, b r i a… anyway spoken Brian pings and echoes ricochets off stone walls flat spun over open water dull, it dove down But, I always came home even if late, dark love cooing, culled a coy boy to near BrIaNNnn. I’d done something good? felt it in a sweet tooth then her, the one who located a lonesome lad name lingered on wetted lips whispered in dark strung wire lustful cat eyes spied warmth of a tender mate purred breathy Brrhien she crept up from behind tender hand, and arm slid up back and over shoulder nuzzled an eager ear raspy heat again, more loving BhrrIann until winter-beaded water on frozen pane lingered on tongue of a child haunted craving my name with her hunger — an ordinary name given to an average boy dreaming impossible fantasy before reality questioned if I’m near… Brian? You’re next a life arrived in his latex hands warmest arrival awake inside her dream of a boy before it broke one lifetime to live reverberations to love or hate salutation and return one day unwanted to ground — not a womb — with name in stone silenced, spelled correct slid beneath silvery surface echo forever in your muffled scene — Brian in black void five letters, three consonants, two vowels permanently savored from lips to ears Brian? yeah, that’s my name you wore it out. 10.22.22 Part of the two syllable set. Sorry to the James and Johns of the world. My mom called me Brian, chastised anyone who’d shorten it, nickname me otherwise. No moniker ever stuck. Add: Lots of other ways to describe the various ways Brian can be emphasized by tone, inflection, clarity, or vocal range… |
When an object is in orbit actually falling the entire time it moves to the side fast enough to always miss the surface of its master how do you sleep how do you autopilot this world, this realm without sustaining a few scrapes, dings? how do you stay afloat how do you stay fleet when this world crushes as it rolls? stay in motion, never quit only do, just do When an object finds itself floating free in your space sending transmissions to the surface are they received? conceived? who am i talking to but me? could i survive an ellipsoid? stretching myself eternally around you? I travel thrice the speed of man made obstacles thwarting my every entry into your atmosphere do I redirect, risk miscalculation? Float free, young Jedi, do I'll be young eternally as long as this space has bandwidth as long as Elon Musk provides free service? 10.16.22 lines and lines of free (this) verse Imagine the italicized as clouds (or fog, located down here) sorry Ukraine, we needed someone/thing to root for as we dull, dim, go out before the rush into total darkness too deep, Brian. too, too deep rejoin us. Besides, not the point. Rejoining now.. https://www.popsci.com/star-wars-physics-cloud-city/ this could have been about a stone skipping across water, if we could slow its 3 second life to 85 years? |
I don’t know life what typifies sheltered me but as … silent majority white male What burrs from my pale, ash lips must be white noise In the mad crush of a sound tunnel that’s trapped me within below mud ancient as layers that swallow whole monuments collapse pyramids Maybe, one tedious earth duster will dig me up some day put me in a museum From dingy little backwoods where beetles lay waste to pine whisk me off to Paris, Rome and other high-brow, wine regions (if grapes haven’t extinguished) Run your gold fingers through my dust Cart my bones city to city in velvet lined glass case But I care first for the scrolls not in future centuries or my hollow expression unchanged But be conferred now before rodentia and maggots come beneath box elder at the bank with a rusted-through gun. 10.15.22 39 lines, free (as a dove) verse My thanks to J. Cash grunge and alt rock covers for keeping it reel bullied into silence as a youth shamed if I don’t button it because I step in it like chewing gum Who put it there? |
we're updating. things will only get better. sometimes, i'm not so sure anymore...sorry... Loading slower now like watching the wind looking for signs Images, time images fall flat under dim screen pixels like snow land looking for them now It glows, as time goes heart manages on its own lungs independent the same looking out this world for the coldest rain Loading, waiting looking for signs Memories, time images disintegrate in a dull mind pixels won't load landing now Yet, it glows as time winds down I keep living despite the last of the brightest smile goodbye for now, sun 10.15.22 'last' was supposed to be 'loss' my subconscious took over somehow and shifted focused to the sun from her Internalized thoughts continued ▼ The Cars reflect in two songs to open their album: I've listened to the same song for too long = without a dust jacket, warped vinyl wears thin okay, longer definition than necessary I can come at this theme all kinds of ways. |
fiery heart shaped portal persistently traversed when she lays her hands on the keys vocal chords waxed wet pain-pinged perplexed why her/my other no longer... no longer that's as far as we get imagine a wormhole back but fire persists and the other.. the other? that's as far as we get at least we have each other or, i have caged pain-pinged chords bleeding inside my head persistently traversing her universe until we've met... who knows what could have be(en)? either way or one way it's gonna be (grammatically) incorrect 10.11.22 legs draped on the edge of our universe i hum along wanting to belong 10.11.22 when will it end? somebody once said: love is not possession but i don't want to tell you who Thanks F.R. the more your stock plummets the older i get when my stock could rise (just image all kinds of arrows pointing to the text) i was ready to be done there... and there... and that year... and there... and then you and now and i'm here...i'm here? until it's later |
head in box wants to see outside corrugated fiber expanding 3 kilometers per second per megaparsec eventual acceptance to have been passively living inside a coffin for life Nope can't turn that into a limerick while waiting on scientists to combine two theories: ER = EPR break open 2 holographic black holes minus supersonic jets colliding wormhole fantastically a known universe in an instant and arrive at another time in another dimension to ask: that was it? and what is this? I'm going back to my cardboard life have they tried AABBA? 10.11.22 24 lines, free verse can you tell i'm bored? https://www.sciencealert.com/this-new-equation-might-finally-unite-the-two-bigge... First verse is about rate universe is expanding ER=EPR is explained in link above. Poem summarizes two co-authored Einstein papers, that combined suggest possibility of inter-dimensional travel. This is a poem why? We solve for the life we have, not the hypothetical. Scientists should try limericks. I've weaponized repulsor technology into my own form of poetry Consider these little interruptions as repulsorlifts integrated into a cloudy, neural city (idea for nerdy poem?) |
I couldn't dress today. but rather than be cliché, left the robe on the closet nail. no to silk or cotton PJs, sweats and tee are okay. rain pause to go check mail. also ran I’m not going to be, going through motions’ futility — slim shadows on my lonely street. they put me in those clouds, angry I hadn’t made them proud, invisible soul they no longer greet. down highway to their heavenly place, a snubbed fool rejects their grace. I ache to be substance that matters. fiery arrows reign down on me. arrogant-flung, they don't see, strike a glass heart that shatters. lonely in shadow, still on my feet, guarding against rain in an empty street, struggling to matter. indignant guilt buries any other head in sand to hilt. 10.4.22 22 lines, rhyming (tell me what kind?) Six three-line stanzas with particular alternating rhyme pattern finishes on four line verse with aabb scheme. people around me want to dictate and control the narrative and reject the insertion of how I perceive myself and circumstances I'm put in, knowing their propaganda will not allow me to envision future purpose with anything I might lift and call my Excalibur. |