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A nothing from nowhere cast his words to a world wide wind, hindered by periphery. |
Reason I came here in 2006, before all butterfly fancy and aimless balloon chasings. Thanks. It went…that way… 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. End of these days near…ing… --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- My ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() 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 and Sight" ![]() Your poetic muse is on fire! ![]() ![]() Published four times with one a literary journal, including… ![]() ![]() 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: ![]() |
Chose your own relation adventure: Self-editing the informing chromosomes leant by them in a redacted, daily life of repeated recompose. Redaction, editing me from myself Would require a rewrite, enmbellishment, A life not lived, but from experience. Reduce personal pronouns to rubble In the town called yslf and fake it Until you don’t recognize the author. Reduction result could catapult, But likely indignantly insult me. Yslf couldn’t flourish without me. Whitewash a wan face, aged, recalling Nothing noteworthy, knowledge gained In a recreation-ist image worthy Of another’s homage to self-deceit. We trade our mirrors that deflect, reflect Into clear pools of time, whitewashed. The silt of soul, not so far below as we reach, scoop the unrecognizable image floating. Alone, we walk this journey — aimless — as yslf doesn’t incorporate with me. Looking on at the former, not reinvented, Not used for spare parts without catalyst, Disparaged, stolen, paved over in yslf. Only the mechanic knows which vehicle true. He only maintains the two, less narrative. He’ll continue polishing the windows But none can get a vision passing through yslf. Inhabitants are far and between, not so near To know the former as spirited, impassioned soul, But lobotomized, unsanctioned, on life parole. Roaming the villages of yslf, only me knows. Bright lights, broad avenues, all leading nowhere, As yslf is a never ending journey back to the start. Only the mechanic understands the navigational, Having tested this vehicle himself. Wheel-locked, Parked in yslf, a memory glimpsed jump starts me. And I begin by writing a litany of odes to myself. I’m what’s important, not what others may think. 4.5.25 Concert in yslf, raising awareness for lost souls to reclaim (placeholder)… The introduction as summary is all one needs to read to know, apart from the absurdity that forces (placeholder) underneath. There is no ground. ‘Pencil pushers’ I wouldn’t have guessed when I selected yslf’s ceremonial band song. Video even in darkness. R.I.P. to that band. Stay tuned. Predicting the future of yslf: どうもありがと Mr. Roboto どうもありがと Mr. Roboto また会う日まで どうもありがと Mr. Roboto 秘密を知りたい Influence forces the town underneath from fire-breathing creatures ‘10 stories’ high. Whether or not it translates, me doesn’t care. I’m always in rewrite. So were the barn walls of yslf. |
Allegorical (adjectives edited) fantasy, a creative exercise in indulgence, once again. 2006 — an empty stage sets our scene. Witless writer cued to walk in…Action! In that comfortable chair with drink, put on that music you like and write with Chekhov’s gun in your lap. Type words on all screens. A scene protracts — stand off with a gray mystery, lingering doubt — surrounding black, a void of silence. Adjust the nuisance, wobbly backrest. You thirst. Rhythms create a boundary in space. Go back in. The second scene is arriving, unholstered. There is a clueless, murderous lot, I gander. The ignorant gossip amongst them defames him — as slander scrawls a journey’s toilets. Wheels catch carpet, can’t roll or lean in. Empty tumbler, favorites fading into unknown songs spinning. In the saddle, every word and unspoken thing sets. Truth, or fiction? I get a whiff of it again, the unending serial, from cornflakes slamming a paywall. Signs point an ambling hombre into his horizon-spectrum, spreading. This play — not well-constructed craft. Frankly, non-sense. There never is a second act of our own choosing — just charade for interlopers intermingling, unending. A crafted, glorious scene, hyperbolic, awaits a dreamer. Man as gun, mis-typed, ill-conceived, crumpled, clicked and sent to the corner bin. Do writers ever think about that? Words disposal is as easy as typing lies into truth — cause, Bang! Finger-pistols for this inner Chekhov. ——————————————————— All other writers have handed in their papers. He looks up, watches the departure, one by one. The entire room depixelates him from characters into blank screen. Never more un-real in the legacy of this sea. 4.5.25 ——————————————————- I never said I was a good writer — you did, before unpinning that pride from my lapel. Dust indent-ion tweaks (still) the tinkered verses, rearranging. —————————————————— Who’s writing this life story? Me? Me, right? No? What’s narr-a-tive? Is there a question and answer, or…?? *reads litigant-provoking bathroom stalls.* —————————————————— Can’t read handwriting or intentions, in an ever-flowing spectrum full of witless fury easily provoked. When will the world hear this voice? *holds down character on tablet that won’t type…* ![]() ![]() Serious…any questions? Can anyone see me?? ![]() ![]() T̵̢̝̗̰̪̠̹͗̾̾h̵̥͉̲̠̍̽͛̌͂̆̚ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆ Ab̴̦̄̈͐̾̑̚͝s̸͉̻̃͘ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆n̴̝͚͎͔̘̰̅ͅcě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆ o̷͍̥̣̺͋f̶̭̱̘͇͊͋̾̋̄͆ Wa̴͙͓̓̕vě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆l̵̩̘̯̪͋͒͒̉͒̄ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆n̴̝͚͎͔̘̅ͅg̸̫͙̻̭͐͝ț̴̵̢̝̗̰̪̠̹̈́͌͆̑͋͂̅͗̾̾h̵̥͉̲̠̍̽͛̌͂̆̚ It’s all going public. |