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 ▼ |
test/test? does something of worth know it is good without validation? desirable, this good, tied to dignity? meaning what? to whom? virtue is good? inside you? benefit/cost? take a pill; go to bed. it creeps beside you. Good. Good? 5/30/23 Edit 8/11/22 italics, title work 6.11.24 edit for structure, comprehension, parallel function |
will i do anything with this? F...my fluorescence (Father) highly reactive element and chemist killer efforts to isolate dangerous. highly toxic, corrosive. pale yellow diatomic gas at room temp. bursting electronegativity higher than electron affinity. Fluoride is fluorine ion. (ion def.) mineral fluorspar, glows in the dark. fluorescence. unlike Fluoride europium gave fluorite effect. Sodium fluoride saves from rot teeth. Fluorine attacks metals. Steel wool will ignite exposed to pure fluorine gas. War War 2 only reason Commercial production of fluorine needed to enrich uranium. https://sciencenotes.org/fluorine-facts/ 5.29.23 free verse |
I don’t serve u u don’t get it ~ ~ ~~ low tide slows ~~ rolls me in ~~ sand ~~ slugged dry sun dry slug in sand fried lapped again ~~ ~~ cool licks taste my hide ~ raw ~~ flesh ~~~ torn ~~ sewage rocked to ~ fro ~~ crest ~~~ dive ~~ ~ ~ ~ on the white caps ride ~~~~~ carried to the horizon ~~~~~ cry u don’t own me ~~~~~ i serve no one ~~~~ not the moon ~~~ not the sun ~~ in surf ~ drown high is bottom is alone is the middle of a sea called nowhere beautiful free lonely dark the full glow on my face finds me here ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ here we go again ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ eternity is a sea ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ constantly hauling me ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ back before your eyes ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ no surprise ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ i can’t hide ~ ~ . 5.27.23 Alone is free is torment is beautiful is life before we all die It’s living, a |
intoxicated bad breath repulsive words bubble on red lips behavior like lust wanton and ignorantly dressed selfish to think you can grind on this in perfume saturate sober words could ingratiate if not stale -- scripted to death eely eyes can't disguise looking directly at mine inebriated broken hearted I stumbled into your flesh behavior like lust never intended to be mated selfish to think someone would grind on this sober words braved reveal a soul devoid of any hope to meet eyes as blue as mine. 5.23.23 Yeah, I said it. What, what? Please don't hate. It shows original intent, and psychotic Grind On This is a raw and evocative poem that delves into themes of intoxication, lust, and self-reflection. The poem's style is concise and direct, using vivid imagery and stark language to convey its message. The poem begins with the word "intoxicated," immediately setting the tone for the reader. This word choice serves as a metaphor for the emotional state of the speaker, suggesting a lack of control or inhibition. The use of "bad breath" and "repulsive words" creates a visceral image, making the reader feel the discomfort and unease of the situation. One notable poetic device in the poem is the repetition of the phrase "behavior like lust," emphasizing the reckless and impulsive nature of the speaker's actions. This repetition reinforces the theme of self-indulgence and the consequences of such behavior. The poem's brevity adds to its impact, as each line carries weight and significance. The theme of selfishness and the consequences of reckless actions is prominent throughout the poem. The speaker reflects on their own behavior and the realization that they were driven by selfish desires, as seen in the lines "selfish to think / you can grind on this" and "selfish to think / someone would grind on this." This self-awareness and admission of fault add depth to the poem's narrative. The poem's ending, with the mention of "sober words braved" and the revelation of a soul "devoid / of any hope to meet eyes / as blue as mine," introduces a sense of regret and self-examination. It suggests that the speaker has gained insight into their actions and the emptiness of their pursuits. This shift in tone adds complexity to the poem's narrative and leaves the reader with a sense of introspection. While Grind On This effectively conveys its message in its current form, there are a few suggestions that might enhance the poem: Sooo…suck on that?? |
We All Serve Some-thing? Landfall! Landfall! Crash more my shore. Glint sand smush, push, Divide with obedient tide Nightlong, daylong On this soft, bare shore. Beneath white glow command, Flatten smooth, race and hide. My brown girth yearns, spills out With you to drown in the dead Where you leave me lie. 5.23.23 6.11.24 edits for grammar, structre, added words Also, note on 6.11.24 (in part, recollecting beneficial email conversations with a supportive member to help this flawed perception) life arrives with such excitement, drawing us in, we want to join and feel the crushing weight. When it leaves, we feel loss, left and decide we want more, chase it. It comes back again, takes us further out, where we are lost among the nothing, and get left again. Then what? I chose not to decide how the narrative feels about choice and outcome. The reader can decide how it relates to their own experiences from joy like tides washing over us, to what's left when they're gone and we have nothing but memory to show for it. It's decided, this person is along, despite the nature parallel to human intervention manipulating and leaving the excited sand to float and sink, like death to leave your home for someplace dark, deep and something that takes away the life support of air, to the 'now what?' ending. We know sand does not need love of air, light, but what does it say about the human condition if just life itself leaves us at the bottom of some ocean. Do readers/poet decide fate after the sudden end? Think for just a moment, we don't have to follow the tides? Follow the tides, deciding we don't care about outcome? Assign risk? Reward? Or, just go with it? and so on, and so forth. really, not a poem meant to be a thinker until rewritten and recalled and seeing the underlying. Most of my poetry with mantra usually is trying to express through metaphor and allegory that there are hidden dangers in life, if we do not assess, be proactive. The older I get, more seasoned as writer, I realize, fuck it. Go for it. Call out the phonies and just watch them practice. Just, don't let them manipulate me. Back off, maybe give them a hand slap. Definitely, don't call them out. Narcissists will draw that line around what you call the truth and get you to argue with yourself, rather than acknowledge the truth in points you make. You'll get nullified either way, in their eyes. Avoidance, if possible. But, don't stop striving to be you, the best you can, and always keep learning, if only how not to get dumped in the middle of nowhere. the above bit, unedited on 6.11.24. a free write and not pre-planned or adhered philosophy, but from circumstantial evidence presented and accumulating, helping me make up my mind about the perepheral things, heading toward the candy center of the saccharin thing. |
Can’t get out of my own way some days Bright inspiration cleaves my head A pungent onion, quarter or dice, Dream every purpose No dish in mind An oven, stove or microwave Standby. Other ingredients To pair as I stare Into that time portal A hole in physical space where I waste So much waste, like time. Store the chopped tear jerker Return to the obedient fridge Not hungry now, maybe, Never again. Too much time And work getting lost In thought of what to prepare And for who, having cultivated A particular taste that appeases A chef, without anyone To huddle over, ask Whatcha cookin’? Just to reply Whatcha in the mood for And spend a pretty dime At one of the many houses Where we order the same thing Off the menu, because We know what we like, Don’t like to cook, especially When your uninspired, without Two lips and a hungry mouth Begging at your ear Whip me up another dish, Because you cook so good. 5.22.23 |
bared my chest you view an animal heavy cranium with lantern jaw now a long jowl of glass withstanding heat that destroys the physical shell in hell, tissue, bone, teeth more impervious than metal bared my soul you can torch that, too survive ensuing tsunamis, hurricanes, volcano blasts and land interruptions let’s go nuclear, weapons amasser, and see if a cockroach survives fallout of your winters, after bright night hailstorms but the necessary casualties, anything buried in impervious sand, teeth I collect, wear like mementos of the soldiers who fell in ignorant duty to master you can’t kill what’s fictitious unless the story awash, lost in a corked glass drum floating an eternal sea, hopeful arriving to shores like mine in sand your holograph army stands in halls of mirrors strategically placed I hide behind the directed, pull cords in darkness my big head hides with a Cheshire smile aglow And only you know the cost from flamethrowers to torch a village to a weapon that dooms us all. I’m not a dinosaur, but your relic of an ignorant, tyrant war, when, my dumb head entered a small den… looking for direction, not rhetoric from dystonic to Machiavellian warbling. 5.17.23 Unedited or fully ideated https://www.metalsupermarkets.com/melting-points-of-metals/ |
Apparently I was a little Dickens according to one of the church ladies. A boy, wire the wrong way? My mom wasn't having it. Learned what reading the riot act was all about, eventually. The woman who 'was for everyone' set the moral edge I followed, too literally. A life of adjustments would follow. A bit like her, I wear a smile like a frown. Passion like hers, an obsession to create, she wielded a shuttle to tat a 15 square foot display of the Last Supper that now sits atop grandmother- in-law's old China cabinet, greeting through a bay window, if a rising sun should appear, peak through the guarding crabs stationed outside my house. It helps me remember why I write and how surprised she was to see the slew of teenage manifestos compiling, provoking her to ask 'Where do all these words come from?' The apple doesn't fall far, perhaps in a different form, because she didn't understand why I needed to write -- to make sense of a world that confused me. I was 'different' and handled as such. Maybe, pity and sympathy replaced love, but not from her. But, she wouldn't treat me like I was broken, and I didn't know the difference, except I was embarrassed and afraid to reveal I was confused. But words, showy, rich, technical words that I should not have dabbled in, helped me learn. So, when I have time to think and remember the woman who received wildflowers and water in her good glasses or gave my art and words passing glances I'm happy to share memories of her and woman devoted and undeterred. In a nursing home, her fingers frozen, her tongue long since Parkinson's no longer engaged, spat out food from a spoon I employed one day. I worried she forget me, who I was. My wife played the hall piano, as I tried to engage, but leaned too hard on the exit door and an alarm engaged. Flustered, nurses arrived, I survived and then heard a low, familiar growl from a rising head in her wheelchair, "Brrr-iiiiii-aaaaa-nnnn," sounded a silly scolding, her humor in tact. My mom was alive inside a slump torso and could still see me, feel me and know I'm still her little man. And it wouldn't be long before the day she passed. Her eulogy I was tasked to write, I read. I feel tears, emotions and an uncommon strength loaned, flow through me that day. My brothers wept, hugged me for a woman memorialized right. It would take more than two weeks of nights, before the dreams of her began to fade. She talked to me, walked with me, resurrected like some Jesus from a tomb, sharp wit and words, full of life like a whistling bird on the old porch of my old home and the sun so bright made me realize I need not fright I have her with me, day and night the woman who taught me right. She let me know passion like ours will serve somehow one day, even if to console through another to kin that her life was not a waste, purposed to give love and comfort to any who came her way. I hope, I will relocate that glow that last time I felt her dream presence, and pay it forward it some meaningful way. 5.13.23 |
sucked in by heat expansion, from putty and paint, sticky on sealed wood window frame. softly she pried to slide open, where scheming white pollen, faces pressed to screen, silently waited like screams, wake up boy! even though school's out, chores don't do themselves. I miss Mother's reminders for a lazy head. 5.12.23 one version |
Ebb The Sun Goes down On me, on you On a little river Flowing flowing flowing (by the tree Watching, viewing, spying) Whenever wherever however We think we are free To babble through cattail below wildflower Tumbling to greet decay on our shore Within the divide where we hide From an angry sun, devouring (Shade from the vigilant old man Who lost his way over time Scarred and hating all he remembers All he can’t remember) And what we do flowing to the docks Not our shelter, biding time Lapping, licking, lusting Landfill, warm cover, bathed by evening fire Crackling, blazing, puffing The exhumed into the exhaled Searching, seeking, rising To the fullest, roundest white glowing Gleaming a dreaming bay, longing freedom To search every shore, but settling Beneath the bedrock to aquifer going Going, gone by dawn, dissipated lost To a dry world with dying fauna I hoped this could be happy I hoped this could be you and I I hoped you would see the confluence Of two rising tides Didn’t have to settle for a creek Dry on the pebbled rock Beneath the limbless man Rooted rot tilted, spying Eyeing, knowing we are doom We are severed from humanity Any life we could have escaped Before air no longer could ignite A single Oak to douse our dark Internal, eternal, unelagantly This must die, we will die, no one left To try 5.8.23 7.30.23 edit Hmm, shape it, leave it? Nope. Formerly, ‘To Try’. |
I forgot to bear my heart at your gate adoring everything inside through those blue eyes. I could provide a bouquet less worthy. What does a boy like me know? I lean on your treated wood, Idly conversate, about weather when your hand neared mine on thin wood, we noticed. I feared too near, made exit on promises next time the sun shines. Walk by every day, hope to spy your mastery with spade in cool mid-day shade, the right hour when your true gardener arrived. Heaved on my sagged shoulder, a bag of fertilizer. Older, less bold, remember you, beautiful mouth agape at your gate. The last time, I laid waste at the perimeter of my sealed fate. A nod, back peddle and off down the street to consoling mother, I confessed mistake, failure to win love. Because I don’t know a thing but lolly-gag in your sunshine, wait for water to aid love for a bright, cheery one. She would plant seed in fertile ground. No blooms for me could grow for us, when not sewn, had I lent a hand, a heart, when hers offered to that tempered wood now shutting me out. On my porch, wondering when rain, the brightest star did come. A chill breeze at the foot hold as the warmest, smooth hand returned, touched mine. A whisper, it’s fine. Take my time. All the time. Blue pierced black night. Fright would dissipate. Morning came, ready to be her right man. 5.6.23 Earthy, simple, sentimental, it’s late. Text dense, dull. |
The last line of that first answer was all I needed to see… https://www.beaconbroadside.com/broadside/2019/04/poetry-that-speaks-truth-to-po... …and if anyone knows me, truly, knows what I felt. No hint provided. It may or may not be in my writing. It may or may not be rooted in religiosity… 5.5.23 It might be a hint, but, it’s in the answer about being broken. There is power in the written word, if anyone knew how to read. I might be among the writers and interpreters who get it wrong…let’s see? |
ever feel like someone else’s carnival prize, and yet not good enough? Silver barb through my eye because I caught a glint, tried. Angled, be-slimed catch can’t wriggle off your line. Spurred fins flare, prick fickle flesh that grasp me whole. I’m inhaling more than a surface will do. Is the sun mad at me? Gleam of smile so bright, fat teeth could crush scale and bone and tiny brain with a single bite, when revealed, a thick fat worm that struggles against its might. Red pours through my window, my cavity fast filling, when the blunt, stiff tug comes. I’m unplugged and flung back to brine, moat of scum. Wind up your vinyl vine, cast the next fresh bait and let’s try to get it right this next time. From depth of black bottom to green to bluest high I should rise, as desire, a golden center most merciful. 5.5.23 Why the last three lines? Try. Everyone seems to know more than me. I’ve settled, tired. |
On my journey to self discovery, notice — every word you choose affect on me, effect of you, like blood dripping from my hand, a wound unfelt you could see, the worrier of fabric of clean things. you, decidedly dramatic, when I realize my injury, transgression human, tiny red scrape and smallest ooze daubed clean…I’m bleeding all over? everything? Words employed as preventative measure in struggle of worth amid a life of inanimate things I stain, the blood coagulates, clots as I heal, rather than dispense, dissipate all over our life — hold it in? but wonder about imagination, the machination of your words. Need of narrative control realized, that pride when you wheel into a wayward construction barrel struck dead on by your gleaming machine in a dark night, and report to my judgment your accident account as merely cosmetic. yet, I question, as you come clean, the described drivable, your rationale, that a dent on the bumper, scrapes and hanging trim ripped — flapping from wheel well while driven — gives pause about the power of your words. It needs repairs, insurance claim. How you limit that drama in these moments, but your heart must race to avoid disgrace most humanizing. I’d offer my arms but that would mean…? insecure? come clean? to me, a bloody savage? it’s you’re pretty car. but, it’s fine. No big matter. Smaller than the human who severs? It’s my car, too. 3.4.23 Needs work. Typed on iPhone from a talk-to-text note, edited by arthritic bones. |
Why I don’t submit? Recon on where to submit invites my ADHD to obsess like an owl with a Tootsie Pop. I find a sweet crunch and forget what to savor, sideways again go… We’re not so different, you and I…. https://massreview.org/sites/default/files/13_64.1Ok.pdf …is something I could never get the nerve to say. As I stare out a window Up to the branch on the crab Pointed directly at me… Longing, I spy your winter Coat melting off. Feathers Baffle breezes tormented, Beg strip you free. You eye me, eye me, Side to side, side to side — Never…with such beauty. My heart feels worth slip Through a clear pane. Vanity is insecurity, but Only for the borrower Of a free spirit’s wing Diving for the feeder, then Bomberang away to the sky Because I flinched an inch. We’re not so different… I feel even more alone whisper mutter keep to yourself. Let me have this moment… I’ll be fine. 5.5.23 I just made that up on the fly… No bird outside, caged Is/in my heart. Adverb! Adverb! Adverb alert! Delete, delete, delete… I was just… A-ha! Uh-hah. You are very Very. . 😏 After…fine…do I speak to you, to me…to you through me? to me through you? Somewhere in the narrative divide, not personification, a third person/1st person narration, but a fourth wall I only see the divide of this personality, reflecting, deflecting back and forth off satellites to off shore accounts, transferred a thousand times, pinging off space rock, floating free in a black sea, never incinerate, falling back, burn for reentry, but what black holes spy, crave, if even a glim of shine. Now? I digress… Maybe, another run to look into publications to submit, after lunch. I’ll be distracted for a week or a month or forever, at times. Now, what was/what am I doing? Ignoring right hand arthritic numbness, tingling *shakes hand repeatedly*…what is this compulsion…he tapped with an extended ring finger (right index isn’t ‘having it’ today)? The pinkie tapped the inserted ‘right’. Showing off, now. |
A spirit jarred hums inside a container. Nonmaterial, dreamy, an apparitional, wraithlike being spies your Heaven. I tried to be like you. Disembodied, anchored to your airy harmony, supernatural rhythms pulse. A celestial sea swallows me, bathe in its spectral glow. Unearthly, these subjective visitations. Ghostly, metaphysical innovations. Shadowy, psychic eyes blaze, How do you know me, captured in a maze, compel an empty soul to fill, sate this much? In hollow perplexity, devoid. 5.3.23 Just something I made up from a bunch of synonyms related to one word, filling like empty carbs with no reason than to feel…something. Just flowy, showy…means nothing…or does it? Sade ~ I keep trying with you…this is no ordinary love… |