A nothing from nowhere cast his words to a world wide wind, hindered by periphery. |
https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/92017/opera-singer I read this and look at what I wrote I read Opera Singer by Ross Gay and consider my own words and ask who’s more confusing? and I project your response I hear your silence I read every curved thing, or flat, on your face from previous expressions of a thousand, no thousands of countenances launched, mostly fictional, but real to me. As real as anything. And I recall my father’s rejection. I know my mother covered me in Bell jar confections. But, there’s salt in that love seeped in my wounds, because I knew not hate from indifference, I knew not love from pity and Mother, you said you never cried and I inferred, took your tears as I regretted power given my open hand upon your cheek, because of that towering, quotable man, ‘Is that supposed to be a masterpiece’ not recognizing his jealousy at 16. And, when that man you called husband attacked, I was not protecting you or your youngest from him. I was and was not a man at 18, but a boy who wrestled a giant down to the Davenport, sat on him, saw his shock, feeling my arms retract every punch against his thick skull and jaw because I was not the authority, because I knew love and that I loved him, as I told him I hated him. I said that I did it for you and Jonny. It was self-preservation. Cowardice. He said I was strong after that. I took it as respect. Felt pride because I tore wings off a butterfly. He’s not a man, ideally feared. He was monster. And, he was a child once. He had his upbringing. I have my life. So, you’re both dead and I still speak to you from my still room, cab of my truck, on wooded walks or wherever I go to find silence/solace and reappear a normal kid, not some undiagnosed neurodivergent that people have shaken their head at for years, since I can remember my frailty, first human error that launched a thousand fingers pointing blame. As with the two of you, I respected. But I despised all, instead of you, because you are human. They are human, too. I see that now… I am the offspring of monster. So, when I psychobabble, I measure input. Data. Something makes my antenna go up. Maybe, I’m alien and monster? I just know 64 friends on Facebook, not a lot. Can I stop now? Talk, to you? They’re dead. Audience, I’m sorry I veil this dialogue to you to seek anything like empathy, sympathy or pity, in that order, since I’m not worthy of love. And yes, I don’t describe opera singers or children in diapers (referring to Gay’s poem…should you read, too), but in deliverance of a monologue typed herein. Because the room would empty, long before summation, conclusion, the point… Picture my contorted face, as if it could show… I don’t know how to reach you. Okay, Consider a computer with bad programming with limited rewritable space and very little time left to undo all that is wrong, if a metaphor is what you seek. I just need to know you won’t throw me out. At least, put me on a curb, share with someone who might find my worth (or, harvest my gold from transistors, RAM and motherboard). In this pale room at a vortices in life, when PC language is so ignorantly, arrogantly but tenuously employed — I can’t get diagnosed with Asperger’s or autism, a suggestible neurodivergent. Know I’m atypical. Employ your friendship with compassion, or empathy. Know I understand that Opera Singer writer, while I don’t fully get him. Know I want to learn secrets to each indecipherable puzzle in life, the a-ha of it all. If not self-defeating. Life’s little meanings could lead to one big truth — or go wayward as the TV series Lost. Why start something you can’t finish? Life? Why am I on this planet at all reading ‘successful’ writers, while my flourish of words yearns to imitate similar outcome, needs to be heard as understood, to quell a lifelong need for rest and actual silence, while I look out windows of my home, cab and isolated spaces. I’ve had to avoid you to avoid me. I avoid the next words on my tongue; though, thank you big pharma and prescribers, I have drugs to keep me housed, keep indifferent pupils and eyebrows safe from any expressions that unhitch a triggered muse-brain from commonness of the lemmings. So I don't head down another equatorial highway in growing, abhorrent senectitude. That last part, I’ll look up. Maybe. I’ll tighten phrasing, line breaks, just to be clear. Edit for punctuation, space the block-thick text, deleting a few words. But be prepared, this blob poem can only grow, as I ramble and metaphor more. If you understand him but not me (you know who), know I use that as fuel to bother all of you further. In ernest, your psycho…babbler. 1.27.23 113 lines, need I count more? no explanation needed. it’s all there…oops. |