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 |  Neurodivergent here. All the disgusting things I do or think on display. Wail away. |
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You don’t like it. I get it. Be truthful. Be honest with yourself. I had to be. And this is fair, make more rules to punish/negate rather than acknowledge/celebrate because fences, around obstacles surround trees climbing cliffs to secret clubs amid whispered oaths…with fingerpaint, koolaid and cellophane sammies in dad-built, small houses. Good with it and a 1,000,000 more reasons to yet whip out that sheathed numbered plastic after x years in negation. Good. I said good. Like Nostra-dumbass, written by my dim light. Some of you? No?? Nevermind. You have…enlightenment and couldn’t be more wrong to cast shadows. If you are put out with me, maybe, one day, I can offer a note from my doctor(s). This is semi-(im)pertinence. I make poor choices. Get regrets. But, as I age, the less I’ll care. Make…these words…you provoked…with a simple bullet…’if you don’t like it…’ The hole that passes through my soul you feel, adjust for, again and again. That’s why safe is not a good choice (for me), anymore. Risks with words, with a measure of aim, seek reward. Not here. No, never. I’ll apply myself, listen for their confusion…why…again…(not) him? Why do we do this? Are we good yet? How ‘bout now? Now, right? Yeah, you say we’re good… People like me can waste a lot of time cutting through the b.s. How can I know what you mean, if you won’t say what you mean? Observant, not sexist to say, it’s mostly women. Guys just trash talk, smear. Each is passive-aggressive in their own way. Sooo…. Short termers are feeding into what the long termers structure for short gain, while robbing our own privileges of promised freedoms... and you just believed them?!  let me think about that.  modern day counter culture turning back the clock with no hour hands, as society sent to an acidic bath of primordial ooze. workshopping that. |
| Holding It In…for you, who sleeps at night I don’t read aloud some of my favorite poetry writes — thick text best left to the fantastical theatre of my mind. please don’t approach with platitudes for sifting through that jumble of collected words, strung up, glowing array — window display but exhumed demons of my mind exercised, forced to my devices to purge these life lessons. my ramblings might give the faux angelic appearance of reformed psychopath who raged, buckled under — but not a danger in pressurized chamber ceding these diamonds. lay down pawns for kings positioned to prompt, hoping I’d sacrifice my queen rather than bleed an army of in Trojan, troubled soul. So, don’t expect a shove in the shoulder, smile and shout ‘get outta here’, humbly acquiesce when you acknowledge. I’m too busy punching myself in the damned heart with a frown-brain rewired, as I fight internally eternally. Not your fight. Right. Just thought you’d care to know, since you only notice the sweetest gifts and concessions of a bleeding heart, holding it in. Smile. Move on to the next, certain they’ll also appreciate glowing remarks. 4.21.23 No small task for an emotional person to use objectivity, logic and override a torment that ravages my body, holding it all in What’s unique about poems like this is jotted thoughts written one at a time from the mind’s simmering process that produces each floating revelation. Raw and incomplete and still or forever informing. Now edited and shared, here. A week from now I’ll forget the impulse that produces this…take more time…depending how deep we go to get that memorable scar. Or, remember those cuts open to receive more happy words in salted wounds. A book is coming…I keep telling myself…as all kinds of arbitrary deadlines near & pass…like blaring traffic. So, there’s that. |
| My mom was apparently famous for saying, "I'm for everyone." I'm infamous for inferring I'm not for everyone. In fact, very few can endure (cliche) insufferable (end cliche) me. Where's all of this headed? Mom had a cat named "Nigger Bob" when she was growing up as a kid in South Dakota. She didn't see anything wrong with that when I called her a racist. We were both ignorant. Now, I'm some kind of something. She was better than me because she knew how to behave, except not how to raise a 'different' kid she sometimes called a 'dumb bunny'. I know I'm not dumb. Somethings take more time. Some things need be handled with 'kid gloves'. Sometimes, parents don't have the tools to raise a 'special child'. But there is time, as one ages, to set things right. If given a chance to not let truth spoil in their hands when no one else will realize what they've discovered. Boxed by people's perceptions, races, genders, disabilities and sexual proclivities aside, it's hard why people can act so progressive and still be regressive when they decide to shun one another. I heard my mom was for everyone after she was gone. I would have said, no, she wasn't. She was and wasn't for me and was ignorant, as was I. But, I keep searching for truth and answers, rebuffed when I go poking in 'the wrong places' because inhumanity, dehumanization, hatred and ignorance intermingle, coexist more than branded people who lack distinguishing marks. How will you know how to compartmentalize a world around you, encroaching begging your alms of love. Not realizing, you can sit down, enjoy your tea or coffee in the houses of communion and step off whatever podium soap box that collects those stubborn toes toeing. I am just a boy with a mom who was average and unique, to me. And I don't have to explain myself, my disabilities, so I can find elbow space in the houses where I've sought love. It's over. I can't open a heart any wider to let others in who only want to savage from the inside, a circuitry that has been messed since it was created in her womb of words, her ignorant acts of love toward others, world, me that I reflect or reject based on some impulses of my own to act or now, not react, to the manipulators and ignorance that surrounds in a sea of soft, soft heads. We aren't progressing as humanity, but regressing to our safe spaces with machine calculators figuring us out. I could go on. No one is listening. This was not planned. Neither will the next collection of words tapped from fingers to spacing thumbs. We all have senses and sensibilities rooted in our past, brought to the present in some bath still simmering, aging, now regressing. It's hard to find faith in communion of thought with so much disparity among the disparaging to those reserving their thoughts, until the right moment, they think, to strike and cancel one another until one remains? I fight for peace of thought while others purchase poison or guns to demonstrate their right to terminate. 4.16.23 last rambling thought of the hour, day, week, month, year, life? edit...later? checks, mouth. is it all counterfeit? should I be locked up? I hear a resounding YES in my head. i might be close, and not. |
| The brain has an off switch You might only get one chance to use it If not used correctly you might try again to shut it down I'm neither Otto the book or movie but I relate Maybe, you should read something into this? 4.16.23 A book is coming…I keep telling myself…as all kinds of arbitrary deadlines near & pass…like blaring traffic. So, there’s that. |
| I had a lover's quarrel with the world - Robert Frost I'm sorry you got caught in the middle. I had to slap your face hard so you would keep slapping back harder so I could subtract my ignorance from the inhumanity and know the difference how a catalyst sparks something dead already dead? I slap any face that will slap back defiantly, ignorantly so I can feel inhumanity from those so evil its unrealized their affect what's dying is not the soul but good people fed to a machine grinding and burping disgusted, disguising words in formulas only a few programmers crudely understand Hands much bigger, thicker also love. 4.16.23 tax deadline extensions and other things to dread I forget I used to title a collection (unwritten) after one poem ignorantly implies a theme I learned I could be a menace without trying. I'd get sucker punched, called out and humilated for something only based in ignorance. So, I made a game of it. You hit me, I hit back. I hit you, you hit me. When people stopped taking swings at a monster, I felt unloved. That hurt worse. So, I veil my attacks. They don't know they've responded. If I gather nothing but silence, I just adjust my approach. I assume. This is conjecture, theory, to explain what I want to believe or embellish to make the computations for life have some statistical merit. |
Vibrations tremor dirt shake the boards beneath my green, putrid cot. Still smell the flesh rot. Gun hardens a pillow, taken apart, reassembled so many times in sleep I innocently slaughter your sheep My ears can’t hear No faces, so tongues must be cut from wild, arrogant head Taste my hot lead? Ground pounded by your rhinos gorging a forest poorly made, bright trees, red hearts thrash, bleed, each tear apart. Stomp harder. I can’t hear actions without words demonstrative, well demonstrated, but doesn’t explain why you hate. Your lonely prisoner/expatriate lives better in silence…paradise? Trample all you boast. You can’t kill, again, a ghost. He’s dead. Here I lay. Justice is the bed I made. Suffrage is yours, perpetual, in hand made hell. Careful of the dead without ears for torture. Immobilized, they can see. Unresponsive they’ll be. Reassembled killing machine grows taller than the he(a)rd, a voice now undisturbed, a cur you couldn’t curb. What’s the lesson in war? There’s only casualties, flesh pile gathering fleas had no remorse for pleas. Deaf to notion of treaties, your sickness, now, your dis-ease. 4.13.23 Blueprint a dystopian book, worshipping devils and their currencies, we empathize with your disease. You won’t feel shrapnel from close range. Quick and sweet with ease, he slips through darkest night, mercenary into your camps. Horns, the hollow husks in dust that masked their souls. R.I.P. bkeithc, rest now |
…and there’s no story end. the drama replays but not in my head — overplayed, oh, well-worn vinyl. my axe grinds, speakers beg please, baby, please, but not on my knees, in my dark, daring four walls, the inter-dimension, to echo back my genius, but……. ……oh…..wellllllll, none can tell. compare, as if I should care? no frequency, can’t dial me in. what is this, another sin? play by rules, must conform? to a cliche playlist during every set I rip the ceiling off this shit for pigs in my mosh pit, playing cops, rusty handcuffs that’ll never fit my slender wrist? stand back while I pick at you, amp past 11 hole past hell, oh well, dark, i navigate, learned to live within. oh, oh, oh wel-ellllll. ooh, ooh, ooh, I should be in hel-elllll. can’t rip this flesh, ‘cause I’m only bone, vibratin’ strings like steel cable bendin’ defendin’ sound so, so so low, so, so, so wrapt, apt. don’t care how you livin’ or where were you at. slosh, slide, slum, my little piggies, squeal as you can… i’ll rip, you keep poundin’ that sand can’t kill what’s dead, maaa-aannn…oh well, ooh, ooh, ooooohhhhh, yea-aaaahhhh! Hell, Ya! 4.13.23 let’s reset this table, boil another batch of brew, see what renews… another version of you? |
| Totally unrelated to Easter, unless you want it to be... It was rumored Jesus was writing a book before the crucifixion, titled "How To Act Modest While Calling Yourself The Son Of God" Edited from that chapter before the New Testament was rolled out Why indeed did he forsake you? Careful not to get snagged on the exposed nails of the world. BkC 4.9.23 |
| Hide in your work, hide in your home? One easier than the other Your mother doesn’t veil resentment if you’re looking for someone to point a finger at accusations you learned to identify, mischaracterize, were not identified by me as a man who learned to self-correct like toilet lids sent down, or closed mouth chewing, how to tidy a split-level abode before she arrived home from what-kind-of-day? give me that heavy expression after a scan of environs a chance to brighten? Remember, I only live on one floor, and someday my elevator won’t go all the way up to drink beer with squirrels and pigeons on our newly tiled roof, traction for tired legs safer, so I can scan a neighborhood, watch and wonder about other peoples’ houses, their young adults, and, where they’ve gone how mothers treat fathers, and their coping, as men, as dogs in kenneled houses, if I’ll see any of them in trees spying on others, spying on me. What we escape as adults, no longer ruling a roost, branches too weak, giants need pruning, and no one builds tree houses anymore, men don’t tinker in garages with saws and hammers, but shovel a secreted spot behind the house to sit on an ice chaise lounge next to the patio table that has collected the pine’s end of summer offering and nurse as many beers without getting caught, avoid accusations an alcoholic, accused of wasting time under the judgmental eye of a family looking up after intensely staring at pixelated screens, imitating what could be our reality, a loving, interconnected, respectful co-existence that I somehow avoided with your grandfather. I view thin layered, pale walls we don’t wash. paint peels off plaster between studs by the closet door where I tried to fit my fist once, our first mortgaged winter. And wonder begins: re-stir the old paint or pick out new samples of something different? Why home improvement when all anyone sees is a reality show of 'how to' for its entertainment value, hyper-fantasize what we dream as perfection, but cannot do: paint? Look up from your distraction long enough for this land owner, detractor, who can’t blend in to the backdrop, a drab scenery, ironically, and tell me…how I…failed you…again? She’s not home for another hour. Better hide. Something is about to fully erupt like a vomit of words, foaming on my mouth. One more winter storm delayed spring arrival, collar and chain off, I will unhitch, and reclaim my worth, right after another six-pack drained out back. 4.7.23 |
| Unedited.... I swear I'd know poetry if it slapped me in the face I'm not always the beautiful mind portals pushed wide by wild winds swirl, spin and slam that door shut flat face expressionless folds up Ignorance was a paddle to extremities exposed to the angry trustee of my emotional well being trying to get through a day without breaking your unknowable rules until red from the other side of lumber swung stinging not only flesh but a fresh mind, jumbled, disarrayed and visions of beauty decayed Never realized this rot in my bed could one day inspire nature revitalized. I tote this bag of manure through a garden of words sprout sentences cultivated in their rows the sweet tubers and gourds arrive late tasty fruit all summer I swear I'd know poetry if it slapped me in the face Parts of me have been numb since I thought I was dumb before the excuse, that was youth you're a big man now? Where is that disconnect, the tiny wires rigged to set off the little eruptions the little interruptions that I could spend several hours in a mind's wasteland no excuses for the expiring clock spinning faster on a dull wall puzzled faces great my flat face monotone voice wants to project what it feels doesn't know what you'll make of all this since I can't set anything right if conditioned to feel shame, remorse and resulting regret from manipulation meant to take control of a wild spirit who'd...what? What was wrong with a young man with passion that wanted to explore things other than the inside of her vagina with a flesh tool kept in my pants, because I was too afraid, and so captured, and couldn't conceive what love was all about I just needed someone to remind me I was alright I was right to pursue my dreams even if I'd fall flat on my face. They said don't So, I never tried. Lowered expectations and hung around the sideline watching 'heroes' who were as close to zeroes like me because they were scared into trying to be someone when they didn't have the same passions, visions for their futures their trustees need to capture, because why? Why do they fail to raise us, fail at their own dreams of life? So, here I am, self-corrected and sorry if I'm a little gun shy because I've been on the other side. 4.7.23 tune back in from time to time to see me mold my marble block, if it's at all possible |
| it's never you never been about you since you haven't been around as long as me to revisit the wreckage i leave in my wake, reinventing, recreating every horror unto myself, non-conformist entering many realms not that unsimilar to the former reality. you draw your words on pages blazing like torches, envision two-sided words, sharp drawn from my chest. know that i know it's never your intent to wield weapons hefted from a tomb dictionary just as easily flung at my head. know i live in dread there is one of you who wants to undo all the years of climbing through a clutter called society to apex somewhere, a precipice where shouts are heard and echo in valleys below my unformed beliefs, hoping just one will understand, climb my summit, be my dali, because i search in the oddest place, utmost outposts seeking what has always laid before me, undiscovered, unbelievable to consider comprehension of known fact. testimonials, the true evidence of what i daily seek, a mirror that reflects the perfect image of myself will bring a fool to knee sobbing, hoping you lay a healing hand on my shoulder and bring me up and out of a waded river, deliver to my flesh utterly, completely, give back a wealth of me to one, or a multitude, that would have me -- a shattered soul, recollected and losing every fragment relocated, but unglued, boxed and shelved and labeled, hoping thoughts form crystallized words to reform me before I wake. another morning alone. It's never been you. It's about me, death near. 4.6.23 4.9.23 edited for punctuation, clarity and yet... this is free association with no predilection for outcome and yet revealed without fear someone see the inner workings of someone who knows this is not insanity but humanity in the mirror. |
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