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 A nothing from nowhere cast his words to a world wide wind, and got in your eye. |
| Just realizing, if I seldom know what day of the week it is, there’s no weekends. In fact, I’m on a never ending weekend. When it does end, the Monday after likely will be THE hangover that kills me. |
| Why Don’t We Sew? (2025) There's a thread that got loose, snagged and tore beautiful cloth, woven to form the shape of you that you now look at with such scorn that it must be thrown out. It's not easy to repair with a needle, complimentary thread by hand or machine — not even worthy of donation to some charity for repurpose, but to rot in some hole in the earth that heavy equipment must bury the heavier sorrow — what lost to landfill of memories, driven underground to endless time. Mother is buried there, too. Meanwhile, there is always some new fashion to try on, rather than comfort of an old sweater. Perhaps, some keep these mementos of the past — drawers fill with regret that we never… learned from her how to happily sew. Pull that drawer open, look and sigh as arm in arm we wait to die, wishing courage, wishing to try…and another sweater the Visa will buy.. 11.18-24/21 36 lines, free verse…newly edited to 32…10.15.25, more directness with better attribution, trying to rid figurative ‘you’ from now on. I don’t know you. I barely know myself. Added coherency with limerick-like rhyme end. Have any gone back to edit and polish a piece from four years or more ago? Note: Sewist This is the modern, gender-inclusive term used by many in the sewing community. It is a blend of "sewing" and "artist," reflecting the creative nature of the craft. The word is used for hobbyists and professionals alike. |
| Fiasco I'm drunk and tender, like a watercolor in my hands, creating portraits. I'm wearing almost a soldier's overcoat, and I'm handing out candy to the young ladies. Today I'm an unimaginable dandy, trampling all the frost with my tarpaulin boots. And I'm almost no longer in love with you, flirting today with other ladies. Today I'm like a watercolor, washed out across the city's captivating distance, and forever forgotten from now on, comfort with languid sadness within me. I'm wearing almost a soldier's overcoat, and I'm handing out candy to the young ladies, I no longer regret it, with which I used to paint portraits. Now my life flows like paint from a damp canvas into golden autumn, and it seems that at sunset I'm carried around the world like a yellow leaf. And in the evening, sitting in other people's houses , filled to the brim with random rabble, I will regret the cities, where someone paints you in bad weather. I have already drawn everything I could, Having wasted paints on empty squares... I once also invited you to paint a portrait, but I suffered a fiasco. Andrey Viktorovich Kuznetsov https://stihi.ru/avtor/kuznecovandrej ——————————————————————- Response (In Part — for starters) Chasms Of Humanity So much beauty in the world to discover… but missed — it’s too late. Only now introduced, know I could never meet you. Your beautiful letters lay open on the table, illuminate, as if the entire world. Humanity grieves what’s stolen, from a maw open, swallowing sadness, process for a dry leaf fading, as my head, in these seasons. Your hermitage fills me now. If not eyes, I die. I want the suffering of death to heal within all good souls: beautiful hearts bleeding good words, their appraised images constructed, re-envisioned and translated. Never let this paint crack, a canvas yellow, in dust to settle — forgotten in attics of yore. Let a flame kindle at the breakfast nook — hopeful morning, early light announcing ‘It is a good day’. Choose air for your lungs to shout in chasms of humanity, “you’re not dead!” Just ran into a painting w/ a poem, read the poet’s 2016 invitation at his webpage… He died at 46 in 2022. I lost him in whirlwind serendipitous discovery, and my heart began fracturing…again. So, I died some more today and decided…fight. Fight anything blocking access to humanity. Fall disturbs the trees because it’s what it does. I can’t just sit and watch the unnecessary devices to marginalize everything that could live. Another windmill fight, I guess. |
| The unsettling presence of a dangerous, unseen threat… "Annie, are you OK?" "Annie, are you OK?" "Are you OK Annie?" "Annie, are you OK?" "So, Annie, are you OK?" "Are you OK Annie?" The first step in CPR — "Annie" from Michael Jackson's song "Smooth Criminal" refers to Resusci Anne, a CPR training dummy used to check for responsiveness during first aid. In the song, "Annie" does not experience a real-life scenario where she is "okay"; she is a symbolic figure representing the unconscious person in a resuscitation scenario, and her status remains unknown within the context of the song's narrative. Origin of "Annie" CPR Training: Michael Jackson was inspired by the CPR mannequin, Resusci Anne, which is used in training to teach people how to check if someone is conscious. The Script: Trainees are taught to ask "Annie, are you okay?" to the dummy to ascertain responsiveness. "Is She Okay?" in the Song The question "Annie, are you okay?" is repeated in the chorus as a symbolic representation of the first step in CPR. The lyrics suggest that Annie has been injured and is unconscious, and the question is an inquiry into her condition, not a statement about a real person's actual well-being. The song does not provide a definitive answer to whether Annie is okay, as her consciousness is the very thing being tested in the context of the CPR scenario. 1st amendment rights — It’s not unusual for those exercising free speech to feel pressure to conform views, keep head low while injustices may be occurring. I’ve known it as a child, as a news reporter, as an employee, writer on the internet (though, largely no one cares) and wherever systems are put in place to play on apathy until it becomes conformity. Anyone who knows anything about dystopian fiction, have heard about other countries stifling constituents, or just some teen soap opera, including internet, free speech is not tolerated. Democracy does not have a place in places where there is nothing governing it. Now hostility. Discomfort? Yeah, that’s all I can muster up. It’s also a good time for stoicism. We don’t know if Annie is ever ‘okay’. Michael did not elaborate further… AI Overview The puzzle-like meaning of Michael Jackson's "Smooth Criminal" has been figured out based on two main elements: the story in the lyrics and the real-life inspiration for the "Annie, are you okay?" lyric. The narrative of the song The lyrics tell a fictional story of a woman named Annie who is violently attacked in her apartment by a "smooth" and elusive intruder. The song sets a dramatic, almost cinematic scene with Jackson describing the crime from the perspective of an onlooker who discovers the aftermath. Key lyrics like "He came into her apartment, he left the bloodstains on the carpet" and "She was struck down, it was her doom" describe the sudden and brutal nature of the crime. The criminal is called "smooth" because he leaves no evidence, making him a mysterious and terrifying figure. The origin of "Annie, are you okay?" The song's most iconic and haunting line is not just a plea for a fictional character. It was inspired by real-life CPR training. Michael Jackson took a CPR course and learned that trainees are taught to ask a practice dummy, named Resusci Anne, "Annie, are you okay?" to check for consciousness. Jackson took this training protocol and worked it into the song's dark narrative. The repeated question becomes a desperate cry from a bystander trying to save the life of the victim. The origin of the song "Smooth Criminal" began as a different song, which explains its hard-edged gangster theme. An earlier version of the song, called "Al Capone," was recorded for Jackson's Bad album but did not make the final cut. Jackson later reworked the track into "Smooth Criminal," but the darker, noir-inspired themes from the gangster concept remained. The deeper meaning of the "puzzle" The fusion of these elements—the fictional crime story, the CPR-inspired chorus, and the gangster-influenced tone—creates a complex and memorable song. The energetic dance beat clashes with the dark subject matter, creating a jarring and tense mood. This artistic contrast is what makes "Smooth Criminal" so compelling and why its meaning has intrigued listeners for decades. Many opinions here are attributed to response from Google’s AI Assistant. Do you have a problem with that? Are you okay, Annie? Damage is already done. Feel helpless, world? Your team won yesterday? What do you do when they lose? They did ‘leave everything out on the field’. Root for humanity with your voice. Redact? Why would anyone…? Shhhhh |
| 341 “blogs” listed on this website — I looked at the first 50, most of those blogs are active since yesterday. This entry moves me to the top of the heap. I continue to look for some place to comment or find an interesting thing to blog…tomorrow. On mediocrity: In the meantime, it’s been more than three years since Peacock committed to a Community movie with no production yet since penciled in during 2024. No eraser head left. I’m going to stop talking about it and find something mediocre to watch. |
| From Oct. 30, 2016… leaf-shadowed crossroads brightening the longer I pause indecisive nearing an ocean’s even tide twenty years go by sun setting knowing the prompt to choose push forward gentle into that good night it won't matter what road I travel the journey to now Edited to include 1st break, new line mid, new end as title, etc. 9/28/25 |
| Lipstick smeared I stared at a reflection they see Without you, I’m the mound of ash. I’m sealed inside my own urn. I lay awake and dream when I was alive. (Redacted) I sleep to forget when I died. Everything I’m about, unadorned, lays on some mantle only you could build. 9.28.25 (I wrote it, redacted it, inside the hour) Where are all the pretty poems? Dunno…centerfield? |
| From the Wayback Machine, revised yesterday: The Somber C(age) bathroom mirror just the right light for my reflection hands pull elastic skin taught just so remove the hard lines — too many years of laughter harsh sun dehydrating gin bitter caffeine have made — and still envision how beautiful I once looked Hello me! before time snaps back. Don't care how I look. I care how you care. With eyes, you feel — see with your heart. I scrunch my face, age for you — gray hair pallid skin liver spots blend in sag my breast a less nimble walk — but a cock that still crows songs from his soul fire blue eyes, kiln of a red organ. pride hammers hard beats strong cannot be denied… I’m younger now with you who stirs this somber cage. July 14, 2017 at 10:09pm #915411 Might revise. Just came to me. What about... before time snaps back. ...to end first stanza? Hmm, drama much? I elucidate, disappear, return to edit, then vanish to come back more and wonder...what was that? I will never understand this process. Putting myself out there... ———————————————————— Did edit, 9.26.25 39 lines now Citizen Journalist “for the people.”   T̵̢̝̗̰̪̠̹͗̾̾h̵̥͉̲̠̍̽͛̌͂̆̚ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆ Ab̴̦̄̈͐̾̑̚͝s̸͉̻̃͘ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆n̴̝͚͎͔̘̰̅ͅcě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆ o̷͍̥̣̺͋f̶̭̱̘͇͊͋̾̋̄͆ Wa̴͙͓̓̕vě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆l̵̩̘̯̪͋͒͒̉͒̄ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆n̴̝͚͎͔̘̅ͅg̸̫͙̻̭͐͝ț̴̵̢̝̗̰̪̠̹̈́͌͆̑͋͂̅͗̾̾h̵̥͉̲̠̍̽͛̌͂̆̚ |
| Dredge this body from reclined malaise — Upright to denizen within determinate pixels Flashes of memory install and project these images Before I write my own program that is not to be owned That another can operably access a scroll-touch away Malaise clouds hover over every letter I purloin, abuse From an archaic, overruled, unsettled language I apply To be judged how it best describes one living, but dead Many stake wounds heal from this process, but one — In a place I can’t reach is “I Love You” daggered in my back. Change the station? Let me…just get up…with these…pedestals… 9.9.25 From ESN (the everything’s sunny network) sponsored by the Weather Channel with a reminder, summer is soon ending. (This should cover all of their channel’s advertisers…you’re welcome. ESN is free!?): Glad I Didn’t Go Out Inside...I view the puffed white clumps unfasten from faithful trees, teased by playful, invisible forces. Outside...icy gusts hurl tiny ice-daggers that spear exposed, chapped skin. Inside...wonder of bright sun’s cool touch upon banks, smooth and hard as pearls, at every corner. Outside...blinding glare makes a driver pull over, adjust the visor and retrieve scratched tinted lens, well hidden. Inside...zeal gusts winnow as spirits, climb my rooftop, holler muffled greetings down our chimney, but snuff out. Outside...the arctic’s deliverance slaps numb ears, fumbling frozen hands working the jack to replace a blown tire. From 2.12.12 Edited, yes, 9.9.25 (better) plus title If an actuary will recall, have you tracked, wayback when? |
| The song "You Get What You Give" by New Radicals is an anthem about finding strength and hope within oneself and using music as a way to overcome life's challenges and societal pressures. It promotes the idea of staying true to your spirit, acknowledging the darkness in the world while maintaining optimism, and recognizing that the love and support you give to others will be returned to I’ve got the dreamers disease |
| Moon Message Moon in October, my sinking pale heart, glow on, slip beneath whispers in this dark. Grasping dull blue skies, douse stoic streetlights. Block by block it goes. A dungeon burns bright. Sad escape, you know? But, soft gloom returns. Full black trees, white dyed, when comes an ash urn. I lost my brother many days ago — envy his freedom, wish he could know. Oft you hide away, your pearl chafes white rings, heightens memory… of not a damn thing. Sits on warm car hoods, dull in country lanes, he knew all the words. I joined in refrains. Savaged leaves will meld — crisp, lumen-latch wet. My gaze crystallized: Nothing to regret. Time on this marble very well was spent Opportunity — harvest…fullest yet. Somewhere up in you I dream him beyond — know true position ripples in white ponds. If you would import messages from me to him: we should join in Tranquility. 10.15.19 8.29.25 revamped for Mike…RIP 40 lines, rhyming "Through this world I've stumbled So many times betrayed, Trying to find an honest word, To find the truth enslaved, Oh, you speak to me in riddles and You speak to me in rhymes..." Sarah McLachlin  ![Merit Badge in Remembrance
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Been wanting to link Ms. Simone for days, as it opens and ends “Nobody” after watching movie for first time with my wife during our anniversary. I forget how great they offer the soundtrack during passages, mesmerized by the car chase scene. It’s better to watch the movie than have me spoil it. |
| I thought today, I need to get rid of this clutter and threw out my money. What do I sleep on now? Now…what forum to visit…  ?Great pick me up are all the nostalgic posts in YouTube comments singing praises for all my favorites. My friends. They pick me up with Amen, Brother! I’m ready with one. Where to go? Wave me home? World? (Posted…QotD) If there are no judges, why do I see kangaroos everywhere? Chase me kangaroos! |
| I’m present… It goes beyond beauty products… People who use the tools in this process are undoing the fabric of society by isolating us more than ever. Don’t listen to me. Talk to yourself. It’s not just me. Don’t subscribe. It starts with you. |
| We warm again, another day… Arriving. What’s lacking this morning, I don’t know. Bored, again? We could make plans to trip together… Bother? When you’re out, I stand on precipices alone, Staring. Life was gift-wrapped packages of bursting energy Lost to the sun, I suppose. Where do those dreams really go? Was childhood a guided tour to lose us In forests Where it’s kind of nice, dreamy, or haunted, I’d guess. But, I can’t linger long in those places… No patience. True storybooks would require academia… Not fairytale. I might be an exhibit of the harm… Lack charm If not sheltered but taught right. Care? We could plan a trip somewhere — No time. We’re working and earning for something… Freedom? I’ll have food warm when you get here. Wine? Maybe, candlelight and a simple poem… I love you. 7.22.25 32 lines, free verse  |
| Until The Stars… Realization, romantic now, how I play handball against a wall called myself lone boy, summer standing, in sweet scent of shorn grass, twinkling yet the season’s last dew, and tossing a red-relaced dream from her sewing needle, recovered a hard ball — spun, lobbed to his pitch edge, but not over the roof of his self-constructed garage — with consideration for respect, demanded and deserved — from just a boy learning… how a small, round object behaves at apex, clips the tar top, drop and settle soft onto a smattering maze of puzzled shingles — hop, roll, skip, bounce, squib side-to-side unevenly until — lay down — let gravity do the rest, certain enough speed, snowball-cannonball toward the ready mitt, knowing it need clear aluminum bothered by my objects far more burdensome than rainwater To see it clear from practiced pride, a satisfying love, I caught like hope in that open hand. And, winked like the old man, with deserved joy that hid in a hard heart,u never sharing his love of that small game that perfectly lands, repeated again and again until night, past dusk, two meals quick consumed in an eager belly, toss and toss again before black torment… time to go in He’ll not see the man now that still loves like a boy He witnessed a child game, but now can comprehend the most impossible mechanics with physical abilities like his construct — that two-by-four, nailed suspension that atop crested a brick pattern on tarpaper overlay — epidermal pate of his pride, the soft layer that allows me yet play, stand in wheat-like weed and decay, heave to his yet stable object, receive again and again, as the diverted rain, next to an upheaval of an ancient driveway Grit sheds, gets the head from a gray-pale petroleum surface — functional interlace, burdened by my spun magic, twinkling like permanence of stars overhead. All angles, speeds, degrees of difficulty, easy game with or without the degraded leather — either hand, behind back, over the Willie-shoulder — perfection of all long past popcorn and late stretch, extra innings I go, in his outdoors…cold, and in love If you’ve ever watched at all, found pleasure in positive pursuit, despite storms and winters, inter-cedents with other pursuits, know… in persistent, constant, self-evaluating, evolving correction — toward the impossible need to present as your ideal of perfection — I’ll make the best of all installed until the stars fall. Part of 2024 eulogy For my brother |
| Crawl Space Crawl in my space, darkness in Reality — limited space of time and imagination. Awkwardly, our toes graze, wiggle — Where flashlights aim at outlined, colored drawings within Lairs…plotting against our villains in secrecy. And, If we don’t solve for a fourth dimension by supper, Never reveal where our time crawls, as hangered clothes Get our heads in crawl space. 7/18/25 Someone’s itching to correct me. |
What Doesn’t Play… Let’s be cliche one more day… Let’s see what plays Down by the river tonight, Where the earth slows. I lay my arm on your shoulder. Whispered words found And there’s that smile. Two eyes twinkle, brighten, As we hear them start. But, a song already plays… Their fire will be mine, As I take your gift hand — Warm blood flows there. It’s golden, idling in place, Carried on lifting melody As a heart harmonizes right. With your hand, two twirling, When a light rain begins. It can’t put out smoldering. When enough, back to the ride — Carriage down cobblestone. All light inhales my oxygen. The last bend, nearing — I ask for your hand again. But, you give it away tomorrow. When I join the river again, The band repeats the old anew. Our songs lay in sightless black. 7/17/25 27 lines, tight but free verse Happy it’s ending. We start anew, renew until last frost. I trouble with ending line…grammar and intent. Thinking on it. |
| Onset (sonata 1 on keyboard) Time comes and leaves, as I make it slow… Sudden happens slow You just don’t know Drifting on these dry clouds Caught in that moment, when Dull to react They want to know Something — you don’t know Slow can sneak up If you’re unaware Drifting to those skies Lost in the reveries there Too slow to respond Should ever they ask anymore Something you could share Dry summer heat chills inside by a-c and fans Coldest winters get stripped feet, toes to the fire Is it always Opposite Day? When something to share Nobody comes to play? As all yesterdays pile One digs in that heap Remembering the forgotten Then, they want to know But, too dull to react Sudden happens not Wherever I dream A version of you there Hi! It’s me. Time slowed Caught in another moment When I see a vision Ghosts in doorway greet We usher out, soft to night Gentle taken in a light breeze of sunshine tow Where to drift next God only knows in the sudden slow All vision froze winters ago Out side a warm window That gathers no frost I made sure to seal — tight — silent is the night. 7.16.25 With dementia, lists grow long until their completion matters not at all. We’re in the sudden slow, watching time pieces that barely go Written to two of last three MV posts, half asleep. Edit tomorrow; fully conceptualize |
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Great poem, Brian.
Dreams feel good though. Thanks for posting this one, Brian 
