A nothing from nowhere cast his words to a world wide wind, hindered by periphery. |
...white-hot coruscating genius that more than once dipped its proverbial toes in the obscure. https://ew.com/recap/community-season-3-episode-16-inception/ 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. I hear what you’re saying, and…SMH --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- My goes through — R S = 2 G M c 2 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ————————- . 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" Your poetic muse is on fire! Some great emotion, well-balance(d), lovely lyrical qualities -- even the ones that were written out of sadness or anger came through in a clever cadence…It's obvious you've put a lot of work into each entry and the totality of the blog has eye appeal. Published four times with one a literary journal, including… "The Tender Core (Sedona)" 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: Is that you, Poo? 💩 Secret Back Door ▼ |
I wrote it all down, what I would do In this afterlife, formerly hopeful, As if I could dream again In an empty garden. Let’s start From the soul, plant things From a dry brain, drained. I’d learn guitar, sing verses To ignorant trees, Words fly to the pale blue, And dark, forming clouds. I would construct these verses, yearning returning love. Connection is what I lack To the living things, having not Been mindful. In a house I don’t properly take care of, She won’t let me sell. I’d consolidate a collection Of dusty belongings, move To a temporary, transitive residence, Consider a new vehicle And begin a leisurely life of travel On my own Route 66. 6.5ish Edited 6.10.22 Guess I’ll not add, end list. |
I could devote my life to something. It hands me a cookie. My heart’s not in it, as I chew. What I temporarily savor Does not sate craving. It’s confusing. Am I chasing What I want? Do I need To feed a rejecting fire To cool. My oxygen Is it’s hunger. Might feel warm — But too close, burned. I could save the world Before myself, sacrificing All I ever dreamed, want, Which I tire of chasing. Oh, look! Another cookie; Clutched handfuls in youth. What was I doing, needing The likes of you, rejectors, My tempting confectioners? 5.29.22 5.30.24, a few words like adjectives edits… Something I started without knowing where I was going, thinking about culture grafting sections of dystopian fiction to f with minds…work, social platforms and other gathering places. When are robots redacting uprisers who haven’t tired like me? Seek but fail at perfection; this will have to do for now. |
What you call Wounds I call experience That in due time, when you cease bleeding — that Seems to make you rush, Flush with Rage judgment — Hold yourself, if none will Touch, Bar you from loathing Whatever you must, Before you stream down A river of life, bypass every tributary, Every entreating eye brightened By your gleam. Winter Will freeze. Slow, Before clouds claim back Borrowed tears. 5.25.22 6.26.22 major add, edit, out of private, still needing work, trying to turn it into something as if by accident |
why do you make me shine? Beneath this glass, molecules relocating by every twitch, touch I ripple within, disturbed by what I can inhale, ingest, take into my lungs. Something described from your lips as love -- trust that I won’t drown. In a bath for one, dark shrouds, sunrise clouds. Does it go down? Buoyant so long, I dare not dive. Always felt you, and you, and a world at my side, glowing just bright enough to hide. I confide, I waded in, heard pleas, followed dreams of visages of you. Faulty DNA or something got me in a mess I cannot address As the moon rises, gleams an eye, one blue will always be dry. Deeper in the glass, shine, sing your warbled song so strong ears could bleed. Thicken a bath pooled red, where standing in dread realize I was never drowning. Might think I’m clowning. Never more serious, knowing I can leave this hollow pond, find dry wood and in grass, settle down. Luna could vaporize a soul, I imagine. Do we really have time for this now? I’m out of my bath and sober. Have longed to hear a beautiful voice lonely as mine. Why do you make me shine? 6.1.22 6.23.22 edited Am I a romantic trapped in a clown’s makeup. Must be confusing. I know. |
We've been beside the gulch, eager to climb a wooded bluff. Obstacles below and high got in my eye. But, I could see you by my side. Right now, I'm pressed to a thick pane of a steel train gliding flat through a soothing plane. You, with your book enjoyed, I, with liquor I've longed to try, subside. Rolling, a bump or two reminds you to look up, catch a blue gleam. Restful, on a long journey to the other side. I wonder if we'll part before destination. I see a billow, pale sky. No answer. We've been deeper before. We've been high, eye to eye. Nothing in our way now, descending. I see clearly you here with me now. Gliding down a lonesome track, I won't look back. You smile and I realize the climax satisfies. Foam on creamy glass dries. Rolling, I'm reminded of a blue gleam. Restful on the other side, I wonder if my destination soon arrives. Do I dare wonder if any will cry? One view cherished an entire ride. 5.28.22 original title was going to be "Why Do I Do This?" Yeah, I don't know either. Funny, memory. Sad, inspiration fleeting. |
They’re all Eve. If wrong for you, It must be right. Oh, they know. That’s what makes it so good? Must I act depraved, too? Forbidden? Like poison, and antidote, ingest me. Take quickly, skirt back on. I’ll kiss that lovely frown. Then, Walk your shame through the center Of the unsuspecting town, project Every judging look, as knowing A woman with no self-respect Crawls out of her bed, into my window, Surrenders at night, never Putting up a fight. Like an apple, Bitten to her core, poisoned pleasure, Call her dirty names. She loves it more. I’m her poison now. A man of deceit Who does not cheat, just lonely. Does not tell her no sin was committed — That not a soul stares back to glare At a woman who wants to steal and got A good man for a bargain. She would leave For something cheaper, she calls golden… If she knew. Haven’t saved her, or myself. “Sooner or later in life the things you love you’ll lose.” 5.25.22 Made up to Poison, F Ridings, knowing we don’t value something if it doesn’t question our morality. |
Still in progress… He lies in the tub in his clothes In the dark when I dare knock, Fearing to ask when I can brush my teeth. He decided vodka tastes best straight from bottle, Learning how to numb, bathe In moon glow, sleep with tv on (sometimes Until dawn) in a makeshift bedroom, dusty, spider-infested, next to that creepy boiler in our basement. I wondered how long a soak could last in tee and underpants. Told not to worry, but worry during this phase of dysphoria. She wasn’t caught early enough. He wants to emerge before 18. Can’t wait too long — even if I hide liquor — nothing is strong enough To stop self-hate until he’s a man. 5.20.22 I love you Myles! I’m coming. If I only knew how to save you from my own ignorance. |
I don’t look crippled. You walk past. Blind, I don’t look lost. No cane, shades. You walk on past. I don’t wear my wounds On the outside. You don’t see Inside my soul. You, angel, have love For somebody. Not me. I could block your path, plead. My words mean nothing Visually. I’m a weathered soul, Bleeding within, blind from journey, Not knowing where to go. Frozen, can’t traverse another avenue, Without you to help me cross. Dear angel, I’m dying. You’re flying Leagues above me. Don’t know The true s*rr*w that I Can’t express in distress. I’ll manage. Walk on by. 5.20.22 |
Winged girl could worry for me, Doesn’t see inside a container, Deceptively cool, acts a child, Reliving happiness when her hands Fussed with his Sunday outfit, Brushed the blond shock of hair -- A wild boy aiming fiery blues Contrasting crimson cheeks. Winged beauty full of tender notes, Navigates air out of reach. No plea will she hear from me, Aged and remiss for life not lived, Regaining focus inside a beast, Devouring every second like Molecules, disintegrating. I'm not the savage, you know. 5.18.22 |
On a dust plain, you see heat rise, distort dry fauna fading green. Bones ache, but your blooms distract, help me heal in precious, amber light. In porch shade we rock, glide side by side in silence all these years. A moment arrives so perfect, I kiss you, passionately, again, feel the cicadas unrest and tremor. We could strip to salt flesh I long to devour. You stand to refill our lemonade. My hand brushes the tender underside of your boot cut denim. Not long is dinner, sunset in Sedona. We will afford the loss of sunrise. Cayenne canyon of soaring rock fences us willingly within. No taste for dinner but soft cotton. Aroma of sandalwood encircles cooling limbs entwined. I feel beating beneath breathing and hold the tender core like a baby. Thankful, all these years absorbing color of sunrises and the view across a shared room. You could be a memory, constant in dreams, my soul’s red canyon. "The Tender Core (Sedona)" War Of Youth When he scooped you from the earth, carried you to the speeding car that brought you down to the gulch where dutiful bees stung the small flesh, he realized war again — nothing like he ever fought but was prepared for. meanwhile, I obsessively plucked petals from white daisies, blissful, unaware how brutal life could be until rubber complained to the hot blacktop — when I heard his true love in wails echo above stubborn birch, pine and hardwood that every aware animal could witness. at seven, I believed he loved a small, bloody boy more, whimpering in clover with the yellow and black, and fractured leg to set. glowing white angels would bathe and tend contusions and abrasions, cheer a freckled chin. in my designated corner, a toy for distraction did not deter wonder — if I hurt myself, would he love me more? "A War Of Youth " Prose and Dead Men Tiger-striped flannel and matching ball cap, if slid askew, would remind you of the old man sitting on the tailgate of his blue Ford, sheltered amid flocked customers and other vegetable growers. Cracking wise in the corner parking lot of the local farmer’s market, his hat true, angled in the locked position. A habit I suppose from serving in military. Big John missed death as a sentry in Guam by just one hour, relieved of post before another throat slit, some nameless brother in arms. A story you were not privy until a man. I scribble these musings in secret journals -- hollow words spun from a corner booth for hours at mic’ed readings where no one peruses the printed commitments amid pregnant pauses. My endless voice scratchings echo an arena choked, with tears in my eyes not for him but some liberal heart bleeding, pleading actualize the purpose of my prose. "Invalid Entry" |
Isn't enough to sit, and just listen? What I learn, voiceless, I long to belong to something that does not wish to reciprocate. I long to remember the purpose of this aching container in a maze of avenues I once knew. It's all new, or are the maps spun so a boy cannot find home? Isn't enough to watch a parade pass me by, ignore yearning to participate, sound a horn for loving spectators, when it's just a spectacle I'm viewing. Lost in a crowd of strangers, the strangest of all acts like a fool, wanting. When the street hides in black, snow gently falling, I wander out to find youth. Memory of where I've been suddenly becomes true. And because you haven't learned the secret of a pale moon hovering my cold avenue, ears connected to a heart hear again without the din of you. 5.14.22 as is, for now |
I witnessed you at your round table; your eyes and slight curvature called smile addressed me (without word) as if to say I know everything. But, what I now realize: Satan acting like Jesus, protected by an ever changing cast of apostles until you are ash. In future time, I’ll witness that empty table to possess and order service for one. No glass will raise. Just a simple supper and feint recollection of indifference. Quill Nominated Best Poetry Collection two consecutive years, 2020 and 2021. |
My noise: just disturbance to you, distraction from what’s more important, needs attention. But, wait! They don’t love you like I love you. My noise, you’ve been canceling, lives for you. Wait… White noise, you press the snooze on me, sleep, as muffled walls absorb my story. 5.12.22 If it’s the last words you’ll hear, hope then, loudest…if not, best. |
Hand Wash Only (Gentle) With delicate cycle selected, trusted to a fine fabric, I fell into a wash with you. Turbulent times have been sometimes torn, always mended, but never the same as before. I slipped in this bath with you. Soft cells sluffed away, sent to a hungry drain eager for more of our skin. Turbulent it could seem, memory washing from life. With delicate cycle selected, let a fine fabric spin, again. I cling to you, just as you have clung, sometimes separate to inhale tender fragrance. Dry, we reassemble folded, another day adorned, softly worn. 5.12.22 5.14.22 two lines added 6.20.22 last stanza added 20 lines, free verse For your consideration, edited anew this month: Did not place in top 5 of Shadows and Light (Round 109) |
Amid love’s lonely and austere offices — reserved for you, giddiness of a child restrained. yet, a heart would chase: red tendril tresses flowing behind your form, lay gently down your ruffled blouse, pleated summer skirt in a wild weed, yellow sanctuary. Vibrant blue vistas gaze upon me, unhesitant pursue a boy, lonely and austere listening to release of those tender notes from coiled lips' charm. Youth lost years ago revived, longs lay beneath the red tendril tresses, a canopy for our shadowed love. Restrain my giddiness -- hollow -- yet pursue reservedly an echo. Vibrant essence, a tempting harmony, lingers like channels to caverns, inside castles of everlasting youth. Release those coiled lips with charm, framed by your hovering form. A boy lays longingly in our wild weed. 5.12.22 many revisions in private until public on: 5.14.22 Who is Freya? Read the rest of this blog. I also borrowed one line from a famous poem, also previously mentioned in blog, I think? |
what should I write next? do you dare my muse compare, respond to the core of you standing over, shadowing someone who has yet to stand up, compare to the size of you? I played your game; you ignore mine. that's fine. don't have time to learn rules forced upon me, not convenient to some like you, who abuses any structural thing. what should I do next? Should I dare mess with this muse and likes of you, someone who doesn't respond, indifferent, never reacting to a game of my words that could send you down? I'll have a few things to say before you open that mouth. I'm prepared. Be afraid, or find someone else to fuck with, unless there's no one else? I guess, no more games. 5.11.22 5.14.22 last edit yes, all these words written in haste one day that you collect, pretend not notice, to throw back in my face, when I smile, because I know I got to you. I could love you like no other, yet wonder, who's more afraid. |
I tease with words, not the components actual that compel the clock of me to tick. If I tell you I'm just a bunch of springs and cogs clicking off time, the years, how long until you walk up to another for the time? I tempt with a tongue that knows embellishment from the lies, can keep track of the truth, where it wanders in a room we share. You can lay your ear to the skin of my clicking, know we're wasting time here, beautifully. You could reap every thought, uttered conceptual, that compels me to ignore the clicking. If I tell you I love you, it's as honest as truth, if a timepiece like me could ever be serviced, unattuned, lying in your shop, bleeding time. 5.11.22 fictional as anything else and still yearning to be real. Words are information and I feel like I've spilled a billion of them without being discovered as true self. Good thing they're scattered and mostly lost to time, because I still need revision. Even when I die. I 'dis' the honest in myself to guard the truth, not wanting to tell a lie, be forthcoming without capture by something lying in wait to steal my soul... who's gone too far with this now? |
I cannot crave your skin, the container, while light inside is disturbed, as our moon glows perfectly. You envision me hungrily, on platter, while a light inside fades cool. A color-draped sun perfectly sets. 5.11.22 how you know you've lost the feeling, cannot feed on love anymore, while remembering life is still beautiful. |
Just trying to feel something, anything, while I listen to you warble your anthem, this song that has haunted me for what feels life long, lingering. I peered in many windows, prying, searching anything sounding familiar like your voice, inflecting feelings haunting me, and scares with emptiness I miss, yearn to feel. Disconnected by a life I'm in, but cannot reach, there's you, visionary, echoing and inflecting words barely recalled. Inserted into a world I've never learned navigate, there is one beacon. No light, nothing to touch like a stone, a hunger for ears I cannot sate warbles about airwaves my wonder seeks with fuzzy head, scanning blinding skies lost on the ground. I cannot even clutch this pain inside myself, when you open your mouth. If I could finally ask, should you be found, would you answer a foolish boy, my disembodied captor? 5.11.22 there's no true comfort in words, only actions of a woman who tempts me to hope, believe, aim to try to figure out what this disconnectedness is all about. your voice has wings for you and if I could clutch you before you fly would I know be happy that I possess you the way you own me knowing love like this can reciprocate |