It started with a song… "Touchstones in an Ordinary World" …missing that little one that hugged a rough neck. Anyone know the way to ordinary? |
NLA/a repost and revisit to that fork in the road, two and a half years ago...(new edit) Half Past Moon The Shape of the Mind Does Not Bend Correctly I live in the great green room for years on end when I paint it dark colors in dead of night monsters lurking about my head that do not dine on gray hairs and wrinkles but lick my wounds warmed by reptilian flesh whisker tickles spike shadows against windows, curtains, walls and down the hall where a bunny slept sound many years now and not very small would have crept in my bed between my thin and a silvery woman snoring off her head and I dread morning light will reach before this years long fight will end with me and the choice of colors streaming through my mind in this bed where I shed my sweat No mushy treat smells, nor ticking clocks spell no oval drifters float to ceiling by morning fall Just refractive error in mediocre light In ten by eight, dressers stacked, creaked closet ajar, sits a mussed up mattress trapping a worrisome head I see a glint of orange spy through glass when I begin to relax ghosts drift out and meet a sky pale moon not seen again for hours on end On which to depend my body in the kitchen half past moon Not true. I’m dead. 3.21.22 After they grow up and the only left to care for rejects itself, because no worth compared to a child. |
"From the hillside, when I tired of staring at dreams escaping into the horizon, I sensed your presence Back to the footpath, you follow silent along the edge until I wedge within wood to stare up at my ghost Daunting you haunt, hunt souls like me who dare dream..." Should I quit or go on from here? |
Me, as a poet, here: |
Google, can a person who suffered a concussion more easily train and educate their brain in the years afterwards? "AI Overview Yes, a person who suffered a concussion may potentially have an increased capacity to "train" or educate their brain in the years following the injury due to the brain's natural neuroplasticity, which allows it to adapt and form new connections in response to challenges and stimulation; however, it's crucial to approach cognitive training carefully and under medical guidance, as the brain may still be recovering and could be sensitive to overstimulation." Explains a few things. Still getting perspective. i continue to ask questions, learn and grow every day. Maybe, more intensely since Dec. 7, 2017 with a severe head injury that caused to black out and forget everything I knew until I blurted out the name of my son after several minutes. I couldn't remember where my wife worked, but knew it was at a hospital. It was like a hard reset. I didn't come to terms with it, understand it, what's happened to me since. This, with my other diagnoses, fills in the gaps of things I can't comprehend about my behavior, possibly spiraling now. I don't want to concern anyone. Just want to document it somehow. I'll return to public in a few days, if WDC is still here. |
The magic phrase: "Good gooey human gravy hard to get." got me this: at
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I think I’ll make this a short story again, 13-year-old niece in mind…having a hard time since my brother died in February. I want to suggest family get her the DNA kit so she can see matches with our blood lines online.
My eulogy will intone ‘he isn’t gone’. Mike is in all of us, share family stories/memories to know each of us carries a part of her Grandpa with us. |
Half Past Moon
The Shape of the Mind Does Not Bend Correctly
I live in the great green room
for years on end, when
I paint it dark colors in dead of night.
Monsters lurk about my head, do not dine
on gray hairs and wrinkles,
but lick my wounds
warmed by their reptilian flesh.
Whiskers tickle,
spike shadows against
windows, curtains, walls
and down the hall --
where a bunny sleeps sound,
many years now; not very small,
no longer creeps in my bed
between my big, snoring head
and the silvery woman wearily calling,
calling, calling.
And I dread
morning light will reach before
this years-long fight will end
with me and the choice of colors
streaming through my mind
in this bed,
where I shed my sweat.
No mushy, crusty bowls remain,
nor ticking clocks that spell time;
no oval drifters float to ceiling,
by morning fall.
Just refractive error in mediocre light.
In ten by eight, dressers stack high,
creaky closet door ajar,
a mussed-up mattress rests, trapping
a worrisome dweller.
I see a glint of orange spy through glass,
when I begin relax,
and the ghosts drift out to meet the moon,
not seen for hours on end.
On which to depend, my body,
in the kitchen leaning, into
a cup in hand, half past noon?
Not true.
I’m dead.
3.22.22
It was a long night?
Whatever was intended, in response to the famous book Goodnight, Moon.