All that remains: here in my afterlife as a 'mainstream' blogger, with what little I know. |
The Idiotic Ideate?? Formerly: New Zenith To Hell…(all started with arc as writer here from the trials of Rising Stars to Preferred Author to WDC Quills Best Poetry Collection to the falling action I feel now that settles in a white case.) Got to hustle to preserve the best of me before fully fading on that virtual horizon glowing more brilliant with each passing day to permanent nuclear winter. if people don’t get it, I don’t need to explain it. We kill all that’s beautiful before we question it’s purpose. So many people find it easier to think in the black and the white. God forbid you get lost straying in the gray. "Whoever fights monsters should see to it…he does not become a monster.” I’ve been to the abyss and back. Not so bad. The loneliest happy person you'd ever meet, when not the saddest person who needs to be alone. In an ever-changing world, we need to handle topics at the ready. If you roll over and give in to the narrative without lending a voice of your own, you might as well hand over your civil liberties. We have voices that should connect to true conscience and spirit for honest and open discourse. Why feel so redacted? Unify on issues and put drama aside. Open minds require complete objectivity. If none need apply, question the unbendable sources for answer. If you knee-jerk react to every issue lurking out there that clutches your neck, you fall victim to your own ignorance born from a life of apathy (no doubt) in pathetic cries of injustice. Just writing what I feel without the narrative-altering mind f---ing with my head. [MY Chorus] In your house, I long to be Room by room, patiently I'll wait for you there, like a stone I'll wait for you there, alone "It amazed me how truth was often suffocated in minutes, but lies were given sufficient air to breathe indefinitely." "You are all better than you think you are, you are just designed not to believe it when you hear it from yourself." "...lasting art is never anything more than a mathematical expression of the relations that exist between the internal and the external, the self [le moi] and the world." -Jean Metzinger I'm in love with carefully chosen words, arranged just so, audible, edible, to inhale. I attempt to post new poems and epiphanies daily with some links to what inspires. I am legally blind with a rare, genetic form of glaucoma. I'm described as "end stage" after two successful surgeries, still subject to further vision loss. Cataracts complicating matters. Writing Can get strenuous but seldom deters what yearns to emerge, despite a documented history of depression and recently diagnosed ADHD and undefinable social disorders and/or PTSD. My recent poetry:
Sometimes epiphanies about my insights on writing and life and what goes on... Making sense of life is maddening. Why do I need to know, when truth may not actually exist? Learning to accept would be a better pursuit? Flailing about in my own mediocrity, hoping to bust out. I am visible. You can put a face with a name. I would like to see other writers, too. Fiction is what you write, not who you are. Reinventing myself. I couldn't continue on the path I was on and needed a fresh start. This time around I want to put the focus on writing and the world outside of this community as it affects my life. I realize now that I have been baring my chest a bit more, as when young. fake me much more boring and unliberated than the real me. A world arriving as silent as that blossom in your garden that I told you about... |
Linguistically functional isosyllabist by prosody, vers libre. |
I imagine a woman who looks after the elderly and how they might feel for their caretaker: Elderly or Blind, Near The Door Snuff the candle in my hall pocket silver from my heart -- my cluttered attic your destiny pillage. Spare not a memory before I die. Strange framed faces stare back as I puzzle pieces of memory carried out in the night under long coats and over-sized bags. Don't forget the plug on that sweet exit. Relief. |
I am from You should make a plan As if I didn't have one And I'm from worry That my idle time is not worthy of those Whose plans are deemed meritorious Who feel uncelebrated by the likes of swine... I idle in shit like a pig on a Sunday Do not serve a greater purpose Fear to offend the unproclaimed master Who allows me to wallow in what I call purpose... My cesspool, my life, I guess. 9.26.18 |
This brain spits numbers to an analog body Trouble syncing Agreeing In this realm I call my universe. Until the two quench harmony I drink oil from snakes Dream there is a place for my Choreography -- Debate purpose in a world With a sea of mouths agape Dripping venom Ready for me if I ever Allow myself strut out Seek pearly blue eyes The acceptance I’m learning Not yearn. |
I'm tired like you girl -- bitch when someone aims with hands cupped to lift your shuddering, bony skeleton with masses of fur balls tight to tender hips, half shorn where clippers could free neglect, no longer reached by rough tongue. Lay flat as a bear skin rug in blankets near heat vents. I would. Swallowed in burrows low and away from foot traffic, never lift your head when the door sends its arrivals. Dreams come no more, waiting winter. Can't remember when you could survey a cruel world from atop the dresser, snuff out prey, clamp in wiry jaw, when you had good teeth. You still eye that bowl by the water. Still hungry like me, I see. And when I have leftovers, if you're there, stray luncheon meat or cheese lays at your feet. |
Since me and rum departed and me and coffee united, I still need breath mints, teeth whitened, a new disposition on life, hope, serenity knowing someone can accept me: clothes wrinkled, hair unwashed, fingernails torn from biting, and one lazy eye: happy or otherwise perky without my latest vice. Maybe I’ll use up my Vicodin, liquor store closed until 8 AM, stomach detoxing from its bath -- over-caffeinated, acidic aftermath. I know we are all looking for a fix, because there is no solution for the emptiness within and yet, if the universe stopped expanding and collapses on itself, then there is no time to waste, because we will all be gone in an instant. No rapture; no afterlife, just nothingness. If that is our existence now... .... I'm sorry, I started thinking... .....what would be a better purpose for my time? To write or to live? if, no one hears me, no one has read, and no one will listen? If they even bother to get a glimpse, are they moved? If they bother to fully read, do they understand? If they bother to study what is writ, origins, do they seek discourse, agree there is a better approach to finding utility in this life? Utility. Boring. Lay down the pen, kiss life fully on the mouth wherever you roam, make no apologies as they have you fitted for white garments, drug you, lock you up. Perhaps, a better use of time on this disconnected, flat land, horizonless journey of a sterile existence... (toothpaste) ...I choose coffee, and Vicodin, and, when the liquor store opens, I’ll kiss life full on the mouth, maybe the sales clerk, too. Hope she’s pretty. Sorry, men. Sent from my iPhone to my iPad to Writing.Com email to my blog What a circuitous, meaningless journey. *white noise* No *static* Yes I've made my point abundantly unclear 'You're Welcome' ? irony you are free to misinterpret, roam your own existence now. |
Was going to write something for Daily Poem (he could say every day). Can't seem to keep up with the prompts lately. But, still hashing out the contest's instructions in my thoughts, I come up with something totally unsubmittable. My mind keeps going in different directions when it wants to express... Out the window Orange and black parka walks a leash Russet flat cutouts twirl on stems hung precarious, sail off Waves of brown ponds crash Two black circles spin about backward-rolling chrome Sent away by roar of compressed pistons Fading down the street A lamp glows inside the pane A hollow, colorless Picasso image emerges Looks upon a doubtful man An organ fires inside its cylinder Never ending, never casting off Always, from early hours to early hours, Viewing a streaked scene. Rewrite: Out the window: Orange and black parka walks a leash. Flat, russet cutouts twirl on stems hung precarious, one by one sail off. Waves of brown ponds crash. Two black circles spin about backward-rolling chrome, sent away by roar of compressed pistons, fade down the street. Dim lamp imbues the pane: hollow, colorless Picasso image emerges looks upon a doubtful man. An organ fires inside its cylinder never ending, never casting off. Stalled. Wheels spun out in the bloody mud from early hours to early hours viewing a streaked scene, glass frosting over a sound-deadened amphitheater. |
Appease You? (Perhaps, My Epitaph) They try to find a metaphor to indirectly say what they mean Lost, I want to speak like them, in innuendo Nudge Get what I mean? No. Sigh. Try again. I paint pictures in words, without directly saying What I mean. Been done before. Okay. I pour my heart in staggering words, upheaved a torment From a storm of thought that took years to arrive -- An entrail of unhealthy logic exhumed from my soul. We don't get you. Who am I writing for? I simply stare out a window where I write, don't think And everything I've ever worked for spills out on a canvas My repressed thought bubbles, spews Volcanic And I harden. If this is what it takes to get through to you I'd rather walk my loving pups across the sands Of some temperate beach than even approach a thought To appease you. Where's My Audience? Shout Here! if you're tired of isolation in a desolate world of thought. |
Should it be toilsome to hold you in our hearts? Should it be a very bad life for us, if we don't carry that concern for you in our hearts? It is our struggle to please you, while trying to take away some satisfaction selfishly, for ourselves? in how we live? If we do not carry your heart in our heart, how light then the burden? Once weighted do we lift at all? separate from your gravity? or eternally earthbound to see your eyes know your will none greater than our own permeates the tender shell penetrated deeply and often (catch your breath here) because our wings are shorn once we first realize the necessitude of cohabitation with one who so dearly plays with our heart, our soul, our mind (here, too) as if we have none, nothing to share but be enslaved to cruel, centric master of our domain? Thank you for loving me in your way knowing my only worth in this struggle for self freedom is the innermost pressure that allows me feel I have lungs, veins thick, blood pulsing, heart pumping (inhale, again) from the struggle within to be sure I have not displeased one so kind to let me dwell near serve a hungry soul more dominating than a mere poet who mutters words as he scribes at your tidy, kitchen table. Should it be toilsome to hold you in our hearts? Should I have to explain? Okay, because it's Sunday. I'm on a spiritual quest. And, I don't want to clean the garage. That simply sparked my brain to produce an ode to a woman who doesn't understand why I cannot accept the conformity of her religion anymore. My home life IS dystopian...if you give her power over you. |
I’d like to serenade you but you’re not my child Since these humble darlings could dream I’d play them a song sing along sang solo in the car in the yard chasing life swirling them about, anchored on shoulder in our living room crooning soft at bed when the hazy light of day could fill their eyes no more rubbing sore legs looking out those windows wondering will they be like me? I hope better; want better As soft as the cat that slow-crawls hidden beneath their bed each night I roam room to room carry my velvety pipes hoping the day doesn’t arrive too soon when they ask stop clowning, creating lonesome cowboys, owls in silvery moon beams, mocking birds or dazzling diamond rings and twinkling stars where they rock cradled in my tree tops visited each night to chase away fright, secure dreams they will be as good, no better than the old minstrel wandering their halls. 10.2017 12.19.19 ledit 6.21.20 ast edit |
Stoic stalk lowed by time Lilts in the dark cold Hard rain comes Pelts the offshoots Graying, too In a neglected planter Weathered, soiled and cracked Not made for these elements On the front porch Passed daily a summer long Long since adulation Now unnoticed Time withered away The hurtful memories In it's slow decay Unremarkable They don't have time for you They can't tend to a dreamer They can't mend what was lost A summer long Adulation now gray To a stoic stalk torn from pot Repurposed to stiff November earth The warm heart of Mother. For ~ Aqua ~ and "The Daily Poem" |
Damn cellphone So easy to write poetry to you Does it have to be in traffic? Muse thinks so Better than scribbling On a grocery receipt While exiting highway of delusion Thinking These words need capture I won’t recall Ignoring what Mama said If you can’t remember Must not be important But this heavenly device Talk to text Could secure even The most tragic thoughts Or My last moments Worth it? Muse seems to think so Or have I been answering petulant mirth of youth That child could never grow up Eaten but undigested In my belly Where I spare him life This wheel is so easy to manage I could set up office By air vent Phone accessibly clipped Hands free Siri answer me Can you open notes? She will comply My secretary Because In ten minutes of clarity Serendipity will inspire muse Play with the lonely child Transient in memory To try again understand Why he’s jailed In the soul of such a careless driver. Sent from my iPhone New Edit: Soul of a Careless Driver Damn cellphone, so easy to write poetry to you. Does it have to be in traffic? Muse thinks so. Better than scribbling on a grocery receipt while exiting highway of delusion, thinking, these words need capture. I won’t recall. Ignoring what Mama said, If you can’t remember, must not be important. But this heavenly device with talk-to-text could secure even the most tragic thoughts, or, my last moments. Worth it? Muse seems to think so. Or, have I been answering petulant mirth of youth? That child could never grow up, eaten, but undigested in my belly where I spare him life. This wheel is so easy to manage. I could set up office by air vent, phone accessibly clipped, hands free. ‘Siri answer me. Can you open notes?’ She will comply, my secretary; because, in ten minutes of clarity serendipity will inspire muse, play with the lonely child, transient in memory, to try again understand why he’s jailed in the soul of such a careless driver. Sent from my iPhone |
I didn't want to open the email, so I had my wife do it. The new Wisconsin poet laureate Karla Huston read my poetry and had advice for me. I doubted I'd get a reply, let alone the next morning. I didn't want to be intrusive...and she wrote me a long and thoughtful email. Ms. Huston wants me to submit. She also located three poetry reading spots where I can share and suggested I join a poet's group of about 500 that's over 60 years strong. She talked about all the ins and outs of approaching publication and being a poet today. She knows poet laureates that don't submit and just self-publish! That's because they write, teach and talk about poetry everywhere they travel. I submitted four poems to this poet laureate. It was very difficult choosing while hopefully not overwhelming her. What I picked...the styles of two contrasted the other two in verbosity. "Thank you for sharing a few of your poems. I really liked 'Feeling Autumnal' and 'Celtic Roots.' My taste runs to poems with simple language and smart metaphor. That's my taste, though."
Now, going classic school girl, trying not to gush, I thanked her in a short follow up, letting her know I appreciated her time and helpful advice, which I will use. |
He never once released The panel beneath Their toaster. Years of neglect Shook from her heart, Washed down the kitchen sink. Her onion bagel Sated a pining appetite For something different. Just learned what '50 Shades of Red' means...and from all places, Wikipedia. Some things you can't unlearn. |
Self-destruction We must let go this all or nothing reality — the unbearable lightness of being. Scrub memory? Seek eternal sunshine of the spotless mind? Rather hunker down alone in my delusion, find purpose for the endless stirrings, heart still beating, wanton, yet; hope daunts, as I’m still seeking a friend for the end of the world. Free verse 12 lines or 13...your call http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0096332/ http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0338013/ http://www.imdb.com/title/tt1307068/ |
I want to tell you I'm having a good morning. Short moments of clarity Finding me, Escaping me, Wanting someone to share This reverie. But, you're not there -- Preoccupied. I want to tell you What this soul is discovering. Shared serendipity Is best. Rather not Lift these rocks alone. Rather not stroll a beach Full of discovery, waiting Alone. The gulls fear my pitched stones -- Flung, Skipping an eternal sea, Waiting for another Who will discover me. Waiting for you To rediscover Your lost soul, Basking on this outcrop, Hoping your eyes scan This way. Be not preoccupied. Let's get lost, where I'm lost -- Find another way, Together. I want to tell you I had a good morning. Realizations come and go, Like a transient one With leanings in other directions. Share this path. Share my journey. Look this way. I want to tell you... "SuperNova Afterglow: End Of Days" My Blog Brian K Compton My Webpage |