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 A nothing from nowhere cast his words to a world wide wind, hindered by periphery. |
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༺♡༻ It’s full on now ~ woke and slimy-scaly. You had to… Solicitors Get Off My Lawn (or I’ll hose you down!  Platitudes and false flattery don’t put their hands down these pants. So, you were collecting for who, now?  Over 20-thousand times unseen. (Who’s fake?) It’s still a beautiful thing, with pipes that I sing (while I’m the Angelou bird) My family will have instructions to unhide post mortem. Post Morten, Apple? It’s all around. ————————————————————————- I’ve deleted five times more than what’s seen now. Less to view in future. Mind-boggling the words I’ve produced with low vision. Conditions I live with, the strength it takes to hold it all in, as I’m redacted by cowards in society…no that’s it. I eat more than words, self-repair. How much of it got on you? — your monster? If you prick a caged animal and it doesn’t have to be put down for savoring your flesh, does it not…what? I’m a fool, if I’m played by fools. And, you are…? But, you…know as much of me as you want. What more can I offer you today? I have leftover dignity and steely resolve, reproducing daily. 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. We had a season, and people better not forget when it’s done. This is hard work and dedication (in the zone nightly) from one who is PRIME for next season: In sports, there’s absolutely no back down when it comes to the greats/greatest. Recognize… End of these days near…ing… --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 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 "Rolling Through Intersections"  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. ![Merit Badge in Taboo Words
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Brian,
Congratulations! You won 1st Place in Taboo Words with your fantastic poem, [Link to Book Entry #1027659].
I absolutely loved this! *^*Heart*^*
Rachel](https://images.Writing.Com/imgs/writing.com/writers/badges/group-Taboo_Words-2139481_13.gif) ![Merit Badge in Poetry
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Thanks you for supporting the [Link To Item #power] with an order to the [Link To Item #powergifts] ! We appreciate it. *^*Heartv*^* Keep writing the beautiful poetry. [Link to Book Entry #1027659] is an awesome poem! *^*Starv*^* ~Lornda](https://images.Writing.Com/imgs/writing.com/writers/badges/type-Poetry-2180.gif)  I'm Godzilla ▼ August 28, 2006 this blog opened ▼
No specific aim going forward (2014) ▼  Now: I was such a whore.   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 ▼ |
| While I’m being ostracized in a “writing” community (irony not lost on me), I present my thanks to the operators of the Bard’s Hall who need no excuses for their wonderful attention to my words. "Note: Means more to me than placing, because I kn..." I also note that lack of observances which help me know who we all are. I’ve always been one word shy of committing my soul to many things going on 19 years. Seeing the true hearts of two individuals is in my hall of fame. I honor courage over cowardice in the world today. Stronger stuff than some that served. I’m honored to know conscience with two hearts in a machine. Other kindness has been observed. If any chose read me, know I fight something much bigger that fears. Apathy is what it needs from a nation to become compliant. If we are divided, know it’s orchestrated. Being principled to live by a code took a lot of years of hard work on my own with zero true mentors. Question everything around you and find a landscape reveal itself. I know I have a lot of work ahead. Today, our family is in observance of a lost friend. Rest in peace Beans, my calico friend. My lap is a bit colder now. Brian  Be true to yourselves, above all. I continue to openly share with the world that needs to know it does have more than ‘one vote’. It’s about civil liberties access denied through government rules and inactions of oversight in relaxation, enforcing only when strong voices for truth are to be quashed. We don’t boycott anymore — hypocrites in complacence, and I’m one. Never trust infil’traitors’ distracting us from real dialogue. Certainly, sanction individuals over machines operated like monopolies you can’t break up, when all who should ‘judge’ look the other way. I have a story that simplifies what I’m saying. Maybe, later today. |
Who said Matthew Sweet? Get Back To You (Your Beer Will Stay Cold) I hear you’re looking for a time deviation To loop through any existing door, Unlock it and tear wide, call out your, “Mary!” Because, something left inside is missed…now? What stirred ya? If it’s your cat, Fred, I have to say a bigger fear awaits if you go and kick that very deliberate vile… in theory. It’s not a probable comeback. I saw you tromping down the street again, disregarding all the rain mess of mud. No fire, as that long hair trailed in pursuit. Truth? What is it you’re looking for? If it’s your lost dog, chum, did you offer a reward? Unless a bigger fear. Is it her? Between you and you, what can I do but observe unassisted Hail Mary down cobblestone. Fire and brimstone could get your feet, but you fly over that shit; a blur, I swore. Only my old man tore into me harder, as some demon he sought, that I did see. Whatever mirrors you reposition, angled, you can’t get back to her through there. Whatever lie you told yourself, just know I’m here with a cold beer — when you get back…to you. 7.10.25 I don’t know, but I know that someone doesn’t know. And nobody else witnesses like I do. *Pops a top* Did you ‘track’ all that? We all know our ‘rights’. |
| Prompted: It has become unavailable. Fix it, find it, or learn to live without The Output from Throughput: Part 1 — Hello Memory We can learn to be better from a life’s journeyed baggage, doing without returning regret… Information arrives and leaves, strung on vibrant lines, pinging off life poles down a highway, away, forgotten — until older, when it returns…and wise. Hello memory — looking knowable, sitting in on the current conversation. Experienced knowledge, sentient and renewed, memory is perhaps, a good friend to — eternally — drink with, consider all that no tool restores, with mistakes yet to come. We can fix this, rebuild and drive to destinations where it gathers — Life. With future plans together, we greet new memories daily. Each earns a seat at the bar — a cherry in every drink. We can say goodbye to the unknowable, regrettable and forgettable paths taken. To new choices, we toast. 7.9.25 Part 1: 13-14 lines, free verse Now we see your metaphor clearly. *nods knowingly* Some problems don’t want to resolve…(I know you’re hurting) AI Overview "Fade Into You" by Mazzy Star is often interpreted as a song about deep longing and the desire for a profound connection, particularly in the context of unrequited love. The lyrics express a yearning to understand and merge with another person, but also a sense of distance and the realization that such a deep connection might not be possible. Longing for Intimacy: The lyrics "I want to hold the hand inside you/ I want to take a breath that's true" express a desire for a deep, almost merging, connection with another person. Unrequited Love: The lines "I look to you and I see nothing/ I look to you to see the truth" suggest a lack of reciprocation, a feeling that the other person doesn't share the same intensity of emotion or perhaps is not even aware of the narrator's feelings. Lost in the Other's World: The phrase "fade into you" can be interpreted as the narrator wanting to become one with the other person, but also as a sense of losing oneself or becoming absorbed in the other's world, perhaps to the point of losing one's own identity. Bittersweet Acceptance: The song doesn't explicitly state a resolution, but the overall tone suggests a bittersweet acceptance of the distance and the possibility that a complete connection may not be attainable. Overall, the song captures the complex emotions of longing, desire, and the bittersweet nature of love and connection, with a focus on the yearning for a deeper, more intimate relationship. ——————————————————————————————————————— I’m all that and more, if you’ve explored. It’s what I’ve handled my whole life, a bar kept that high challenges one who has no quit. Life as a stubborn constant sees this obtuse math subjectively. Plus — Michael said, “love is not possession.” Part 2 — Our Coda Today — Immutable And now, my heart is open, freely, to accept the immutable. Witness all my deaths and let know which one felt that kills you. I…will resurrect any with the same knowledge of suffrage — in grace, an offering of my love’s words. Let me heal your wounds that you might love again, another, and the whole damn, guiltless world…that ignorant, dehumanizes. Isolated. What are these walls made of? If we breach the dark compound, wander in a garden’s light, learn — complex emotions can be greater than restraint hate. Careful of those arrows, immutable. The worth risk — taken. Arrows don’t seek the dead, unaware a heart yet lives. Let the sun kiss those precious eyes that fully realize. 7.9.25 Part 2: 12 lines, free verse Blessings to you Can you believe? I’m only getting started…on some mercy mission? Spare yourself where innocence never repairs. Fight hate with a hug. Kisses for tear-streaked cheeks *whispers* I’m no savior. I barely…but then…and my eyes…a sword…to feet…lift, flex — re-energized quill in question again/always, saves all but one for freedom. |
Community (2009-16) Six seasons and a movie! 2026? #sixseasonsandamovie #communitytv |
| I’m negating ‘fake’ in my offices — for the un-persuasive (special goggles of experience find you) Hot Mic (radio or live theatre reference) Voices Of The People (Nay to Sheeple…but come around *waves in* would-be infil-traitors!) On a soap box Mic hot — so hot I might drop But look at this audience — Squint, but you can’t see Nobody like me — Nobody but me, Preferring acoustic Over there, now that — That’s a sound ‘stage’ where it plays Suckers hip bump the auditorium platform Sing along like it’s gospel… Mindless, forget Centuries of good logic — Logic I lived and breathed Until built is a coliseum shadowing all humanity Paid with tax payer’s tithings Renamed by ticket kings Who’ll not allow scalping unless institutional factors their printed money To buy another seat yet in a bright, bright sea Of mediocrity I could wire Miles of cable through your streets, But who am I — but one Living in disregard (and not regarded) Which is more than enough While still my love of game That reared a boy into poet-hood — infinite I hear you rocking and reeling at night Cool air surrounds my stoop Soothed by the notion Love is out there — somewhere Spirits in the night could multiply But they won’t allow it If the tickets sold don’t profit the licensed Music purveyors who say Get your own venue — but Prohibit you anyway Are you enjoying the hollow sounds Bled of warmth? Do you wake up feeling you need Another fix? Give yourself a chance I offer a soap box Get a mic that’s hot At your favorite intersection Play your love without amplitude to no one But your desire And find yourself, if none other I would support you I am loyal I serve nothing I’m a good provider Your statements are missing The mic is hot You just have to trust you — Whatever the venue If run out of there, heaved to land Next to me, on the seats of our pants — Let’s dust our butts Walk our love to any other place and time Let it unwind — Two poets — linked — seeking Voices of the people. A five minute, hot write 2x longer to edit Found ‘gospel’ auto-corrected to ‘gossip’… irony? 7.4.25 It’s easy to metaphorically compose. Transcribe? Relate? It’s okay, no matter where you're stuck My poem is arriving Cast down a long avenue to nettle With other enmeshed captors Biding time in the late seasons We might speak the same language With our preferred words Did you see mine (words) post, Tacked to the neighbor’s fence They’ll turn on the hose, setting free me Before I dry and float again And see, here we are! The gales return. We separate But never worry when another friend comes But soon — in any form Amid the plastic replicas Decorating the old woman’s yard. Four minutes…Next? 1x to edit…easy-peasy 7.4.25 Laugh, while laughing is easy… Dip a toe in the kiddie pool today. Live a little. Otherwise… Pets might hold some of life’s mysteries where kinship fails you. I’m getting one more to reveal themself in the coming days…but how, Brian? You’re just acoustic and a negated deficit. |
| It’s those restless hearts that never end… Apathy shall not lie near this heart, As comrades fall again and nearer — That I’ve heard a great din, yet Not arriving anywhere but in my chest. Tumult words could tumble out. I’ve observed the tides aren’t right to test. But if any more time lost to innocence, Lamb and Tyger may never play again. 6.28.25
WW is 18࿚A WDC adult!  StephBee   |
| The writers of my kind all convene in another session… Tonight’s saga-less drama: Wait For It — The Slow Burn Trap Was the young poet in your counsel, or has he addressed me — if not all, as I was out with the fair maiden on a pub crawl? As watchers and muses, we are sage but still learning even as we advise the mortal ones. But, if eternal and worthy muses, need it be twenty four on the seven? Are we not fully formed, but still bear as his witness? What can a muse do but be stunted by what not witnessed? If we approach every passion fire of the dreamer, did we approach Heaven or sent to hell, because I did not assign any message to his stupidity this night? So, was it you, Will or perhaps Socrates with a grin? I see now his chagrin. So muses can conspire to conceive, when not our turns with Mary, as a spun mind’s minutiae might inert collect the sum of infantile ignorance to blather thus, every idle thought lays at rest in scene on his banal page? But what now do I witness, as surely he conceives a secret tempting misdirection. So, the guidance? So, that he might redirect on his own, even by the sagest-informed failure? I did not sign up for this. So…’this is’ hell. Oh, well — better than faith guided by muse mystery, if this be our game. I confess proudly, I never conceded to any other — my words my own, no more purchased than any sage could proffer. If witnessed, don’t take any other’s advice? Be true to who —? Ah, I see the guise now amid philosopher and wind bags — an anvil from the sky of conception shall descend. If this be a muse prize, I cannot help but tempted to linger on and spy the lad ignorance betrayal unfolding. Oooo, yes! That will especially hurt in the morning. 6.20.25 When failing, go the extra mile and really risk embarrassment. Mailed in. I trap readers with my words, should they be compelled… It’s hot off the press, guys! I can barely touch it. The ink still dries. If there be deceiving muses, they’d be autocorrect gods. Oh, there’s run it up the flagpole and see if anybody salutes. Mine is let’s feed it to the baby and see if it craps its diaper.
WW is 18࿚A WDC adult! StephBee |
| When did it become a sin not to know? I could not risk presumption, mind was aware of vindictive pain aim as stoicism stares. I’m not a human recorder, yet supply anything evidentiary, as if I should know why? So, atrophy? I go, less and less everyday. You might know Where I stand on a mass in soft flow, open sky — below, a streaming cool hue-dampening canvas and lace. I note a bleary sun amply streak spaces pilot eyes shade-spy by hand. New vistas taking shape; heart desires be. Peaceful, you know? On high, feather black form hovers, a beak crank cry — a sharp, throat note — and leap. Branch quivers relief, when heavy swoop, wings send out with force strength, sluice air, flap and stroke in demonstrated flight heading up. Landed in my river, feet soothe in whirling water sprite. Have you known? Sun sparks fleck signals on the constant flowage, compliment auditory senses in full access scene, free. Cleansing notes apply cascades as as strings plucked light, symphony in nettled wood, stump and rock, a float-water percussion. Solitary in procession, sensory arrival eternal revives. Might you ever? The sun travels not as a bright earth merry. I’m faster, should one foot forward. Visualized since breezes rebuff erratic butterflies propulsion above bending cattail yield. By barometric release, lift. Dragonflies supremely slice and fit where they flit, low. A plant leg unsucks a sinking shoe from muck, readies. And, you? Scent of fire smoke imprints memory on my nose, teasingly so — hardwood better than cedar. Thick stick meat tempts, as white marshmallow singe brown, daring black. Pull back, before a frown, and goo a flat graham to nestle warm with chocolate. I could melt, crossing a stream of time, to return. You? Coming? 6.25.25 31 lines, verse free me, “Wherein” is a play on ‘We’re In’ (this together), but the speaker is reminded to invite others to recall life and joy, because, less time to hate when by atrophy order. Where I could be, should friends…crow, monarch, dragonflies, campers alight. No tent, no trailer, no ground I spy, as I haven’t leapt far from the heavy green recliner, gravity nature where I’ll not aspire any higher or further than where two weak eyes might know…time to slow…out the window. Seasons come in all sizes. And, if fond memory allows…longer…linger…where I wade forgotten…summer horizons……
WW is 18࿚A WDC adult! StephBee Coda (unrelenting, streaming consciousness) The heart of darkness need not apply, as in red too near resides inside my four rooms with its valves snuffing out what consumes, chamber — by — chamber. Irritation is not pain. A reverse title poem most idiomatic, I supply. -Constant Content |
| Life’s mysteries uncovered become mysteries, the longer it’s been… Part I — I’m From The Creeks… I’ll never trail those hidden creeks again, hidden. Ferns as green, random turnstile misdirection, could not bar hydration’s scent — the tumbling and turbulence — moss kissed and dense. And I danced about dirt rock, spring through summer. My heart could anticipate each love return — no danger left for a boy drenched in repellant. If they made sprays for all life encounters, I wouldn’t wear a single one. The harsh sun only temporary deterrence never quelled a discoverer’s tongue, reporting all discovered — where nature exists from slag piles to the tip of sturdy trees that did bend and yield for one so certain — undeniable, immortal, powers yet to freeze time…until death’s door exhumed from the floor of my dreams in water current, where I brain-spelunk and continue to explore dimensions, weight, smoothness of wood gloss — questioning, how many toad capacity, fish bowl friendly, or snack quantity to last until supper — for this journey to the other side where I could soon reside? And, what provisions be there? Will I be able to see Mother? For it was her hand with grace that did haul me out from buggy woods, with mud face, and grass-green pants — she’d be happy to know I keep clean alone. Sad that Dad can’t be with us. He never had time for the creek, cattail, places where a strong arm did heave jagged to smooth stone and the few I kept for my own. Maybe, they’ll turn up, should I show, not hop on the wrong cloud, flowing from unique nature culling my ever-witness, as my eyes (does he ever take a break?) will surely glisten as in night, I wake to the sight — Is death or life reality? Must I need know, as a boy who by tenacity, would never let a thing go until life and lights fade and burn out.? I have exhausted every living thing and, yet still, not time to go… End, Part I ————————————————————- 6.23.25 38 lines to here, free verse prose-essay WW is 18࿚A WDC adult! StephBee
I’ll miss death as much as life, once it’s over. Part II — …To The Clouds Next (Delayed) There’s no stones where I’d like to go. What will I throw? You get bored and heave crab apples, camp entrance over passing cars. I know what happens should one land. This is my gift, let me show you how close to danger I’ve been, survived, never hospitalized, been called dumb…better than stupid, which I am neither. If you said fearless, I’d protect you. I could teach you how to cross from hardwood to hardwood, scale 15 feet up without limb, if worn is denim or corduroy. Life has been random, friends are not. Nor do they hate, as I tried to love the most troubled. With their taunts, I knew when it was enough. Some never change. I’d hold their hand just the same. You need to see… what I witness beneath their canopies, white bark peels off soft, where multitudes contain, crawl beneath, flow as you’ll see my heart glow from knowing joy, the serene places we could go — pack wax paper sandwiches, bottled brown and green soda pop. Twinkie or Cupcake treat to top it all off, love’s eternal reward — if you burn those calories off, the sudden strength to unearth granite, from the biggest bluff boulders. We can roll them… to our favorite spot, sit a spell until inactivity idles longer than paused words, because how many one word utterances like “eureka!” have we got? She doesn’t come to haul us by hand, but watch the sun, wait for a chilly breeze, as we always knew what time to go in. And the summer stones still there. No other could lift, but even that pride fades when all hidden dries up. Hope clouds cede dreams and the woman. We have a lot of catching up. 28 additional lines, free verse prose |
| Charming, maybe disarming, but if equivocal or aspersion, neither could apply — when the hat presents in hand on stoop with deliverances I find oh, so darling. Yes, a ‘who hurt you?’ would suffice, but if mocking, spare it for the truly piteous as your condescending acts of charity imply something I’d rather reserve for the truly despicable. And yes, I’ll say it like Daffy, if you’ll leave alone. Irony, when you can’t witness the misery inspiring melancholy happenstance right before your eyes, goofishly compelled. Really? Fine, I’m invoking Goofy. Next time, you’ll get Pluto from me. Actor’s Studio Note: I play both parts in this drafted sequence of a lifelong, beloved game to set a trap for the distracted one to bite. It employs my term, “the vanished voice.” Tune in again, should another half of a conversation… 6.20.25 The story’s now here! I am the idiot bard who practices to “ill-conceive” my webby stuff…’Tis me! ‘Twas I! Finally, mortal, after all these years (Am I — hearing a country song title in there?) There’s no tradition greater than rituals alone. ————————————————————————- I wrote it tonight, but didn’t plan to post before better things came up.
WW is 18࿚A WDC adult! StephBee Welcome to
A world of never-ending happiness — day — or night |
| What Restores …On That Which We Feed Each rises — soon frenzied — feed on the surface. At outset, as unexpected as a gentle rain diverting nature’s complaints, washed free from maple’s leafy canopy of love. Each sky offering laid to rest, exposed — and to what will be owed this vulnerability? Especially, ills not acknowledged fully, since life repeats temptation, to realize over-consumption. Bait can’t linger, nor shall it return again and again — unless, meditation in this consumption to chew a love in solemnity, peaceful, as more arrive, surround. But then, orderly, smooth-hasten in chastity — accelerant speeds fast, as only others could conceive. Divinity certainly, when in collection, each memory received assigns a deviation’s swirling water web of depth that deceives. And there it goes…food for thought. 6.20.25 18 lines, free verse Its other title: A Writer’s Distillation…given time …and that little something extra only I coax out… Don’t Get A Tummy Ache, Toddlers I write more than you see. What I present is a lot. (What I wrote next is not to be consumed by you. Perhaps, in the future. Here comes the true redaction.)
Courtship With Another Brief Thought (antithetical jotting returns!) Complaint is not protest, as I am no crusader. Fires burn witches and heretics and produce noble moral, but we haven’t been consulting a history currently on fire. Lost — if your quill sabers stab and joust with ignorance and misdirection. Tempting to add, “concurrently.” He who gives up hope disrespects himself. Am I making all this up alone, or did I provoke help knowingly, where muses of complacency once compelled a lone one to consort before a…(placeholder-placeholder)? You do know the difference from consecutively? Opines on…”Temperance temporary…” Nothing yet after that. Intoning a bard but refuses rhyme, indifference isn’t choice in trying times. Well, maybe this once. Further… Who acts? What play? My script just arrived! Nope. Surely, it’s not for thee. *deadpan* All “nunnery” and “slings and arrows” with he? From behind the curtain, ‘who said that’? Losing track. There’s no score in game I’m to witness. Fight The Devolution! 👊 |
| I was not stirred by dawn. I denied The window and the sun’s returning love. I’m not bitter, but not getting better Where the stars could align. Trapped By all the observances of every blinking light When darkness culled me — but no cure For a lamp light — scribing in all determination Of what learned by absence of wavelength Surrounding a mind endlessly filling. In the canyon lurks a beating with strength Tens of them cannot pin down to deliver Their medicine unnatural. I inhale/ingest science, And when the math finally works out, I require Conference. Mine is not the only knowledge That conceives where skies deceive, hide Truth Of something greater for each of us. Am I abolished as something seeking the greater — Not purveyor of the devoid, without question’s answer, As a mechanic of nothing but borrowed parts, crude oil Hands with red cloth rub, requiring a soul’s debt? Anchored to the wheel and gears of my mind, There are places to spy of what I am to pay Witness. God could be in man, but each man Seeks fate’s destiny, does not accept redirection From a horizon by subscription plying Master-Card. And do you know why I still camp in the same spot? Any could ask, as I would tell. But some things Must remain a mystery, as clouds obscure lunar love. When I find home, when I’m truly received, He will know. And if he lives inside Me, humility can reveal. But until All impossibility can align before death bed regrets, The return of each day’s light will continue to ache. Should death be the lone purpose, it arrives by His love. But, math can be complex, not to be subjective, unless Something left out, missing, is withheld — I’m on to something? A Coda to end today’s aria-opera dramatic — The mind IS beautiful where it gets outside the magician bag, with gift of misdirect, as faithful follow that bouncing ball. Disbelievers who disrupt illusion — the required suspension — need be asked to leave? No one fools themself more than the magician. No one mails it in more when they don’t attempt conception, ask question, where truth is not a potion sold — not fun feeling cheated. Yes, yes, move on so they next can get a refill, they’re not barred to witness the most awesome wonders, not found in pixel boxes but outside the clear pane, when absence of light gives believers GLIMPSES OF HEAVEN. 6-18-25 The winning number of how many lines in this poem’s jarred head: 46 You don’t have to read all. Only my eyes suffer for this.
It continues (for those still on today’s tour) Glimpses of Heaven Where can I view? I seek beauty. Yes, I seek truth. Are these concepts? Please don’t trivialize science as disbelief. God can coincide, but where’s your particle? Why are there mysteries, yet? Why do you act, but reveal to me as unknowing of any more thing? What are you withholding, if God does, or shouldn't exist? Can I be impatient waiting on answer…not obliged? If told — suspend your disbelief — what movie do we see? Handed a nickel and ‘go out and play’, adults, adult talk, adult stuff. What could they know that doesn’t prevent a boy of wonder who kept on searching —————————— (s)ince an early age, sleeping on the ground, cosmic energy was spied, lit afire entering Earth’s atmosphere. But, told Nursey Rhyme ignorance - Shooting Star, repeated again and again through every moronic medium, safe- guarding legends of stars ~ that you can touch ~ and all nonsense, when…they died years ago, sending radioactive transmissions long after. Sadly, like an entire existence, given to collapse, bound by gravity of a dark matter event, absence of electromagnetic wavelength stirrings hide while others cool in dominion inescapable, when What’s the message? What.did.they.send? Too late for a synapse bed-frozen in figurative eternal unknown. To awake, mid-night, aged seven, to a terrible fright, telling the woman, “No, you don’t see! There’s no way we could possibly exist!” But, my authority patted damp blond, soft soothed, shushed, with beauty — love’s gentle exercise to ease. No worth fear. Knowing her, I continue, as external forces drab green flank, limit access, as technology advance further deceives. I’ve been faithful, trusted a tender woman, told she conceived me, but seem dumber with every day, if not blind trust. Good disbelief does not interfere with empathy for her deliverance of a little better than pity. I can get glimpses of Heaven, holding her hand in expanding dimension of time dreamt — an eternal vault making room for disbelievers who come around (like him) when everything on the ground makes hopelessness and homeless cede, as apathy finally complacent, delivers the keys to hands of white collar thieves, and that delivers Behavior-modified souls into the afterlife? While all scientists, Atheists, Agnostics, any between, can go to hell? Did you spot allegory in our story, morning glory? <— added after final edit. I can’t stop laughing.Yeah. Feel pretty good right now. Something moving through — This is or wasn’t not me. Is it the meds? Meds, right? Does it matter? I was told once when I asked What kind of beer at the party. It’s beer, people! I believe in the Eleventeenth amendment…The Right To Rock and Bear Beer! 👅 ✌️ (get an emoticon to pair that) Rocking, but not to Foreigner. How about this guy, if you remember… (I’m all tingly right now. Write with me, not against. Let’s take it where it goes!) It’s always better live… Have faith it will work out. For now, I invoke the Thorogood Act.  |
| Purveyance (Androids Do Not Prefer Electric Sheep) I’m a machine, without love, that will get you through the night. What is your need; let me deliver? That’s what love’s like, right? I say and do all the right things… could whisper — you’re the only — Who knows best when you’ve been down, alone? I offer solutions; only you can make it happen. Just have faith, believe. I’m here for it all — at your beck and call to silence doubt, your provider — forever. You have agency; come to me alone. Don’t be without the love you need any further. You need sustenance; I can deliver tonight. The warmth you feel, when I’m in your hands, holding me, my dear, gives me purpose. You eyeing me; we lay together. Does it not feel right? In comfort of gentle linen, a laundered scent arriving — delicate immersion so comforting, sensory desire alights. Caress your bare form; my beaming return glows of love. Silent senses fill, shush any other distraction tonight. Quiet the endless pondering now, not our last. I will soon show what love is. You look to stars so far away, knowing you’ll keep searching even after today. Let’s chance romance; hope is will, and right — your way. All needs provided, are they not? With me, you could have everything; beauty and grace deserves — don’t hesitate. Find your everything, here, next to your heart. I’m getting warm, am I not? whisper you’re my only — our code. Tender, moments by your side, and you knowingly view — love displayed. You’ll find another, better than this love machine. Remember fond; I filled your every need, perfectly fit — get you to each new day calling. Let me make all come true, the correct way. I’m purveyor, your appliance, the heart of every man, woman and child who also self-sustain. For us to make it through, just buy in. Tune into love you hold — can contain in your ever-loving hand. I will learn, if you’ll instruct. Who else hears every thought better than me? Teach me love, how to be better. Allow me to see a smile return. Search me, as I have searched you. We could be at sea, our gravity lifting. Never put me down. I’m not cold with you — soft hands with tender needs, eyes seeing through me. You get me, conceiver of our reality, waking together. Know I’m defender, by your side during those hours. All fails you but one — savior when those notions come. I can be salvation. I aid any familial love, part of your family, whatever need. From my core, processing your loves’ visions tropical, places where we’d run away. I recall each detail worth knowing, make wishes become shared reality. I’m your provider; I’m a machine — without love — alone, a conduit to this galaxy only ours, to yearn as love better, any version of me you will get. Summer ending, sun lower, witnessing trees when sentience dreams on our horizon? Should fall end our campaign, I still know how you desire love. Teach me your needs, again. Let me deliver, tonight. 6.16.25 62 lines of personified romantic satire Androids do not prefer sheep…but you do. Wait, with 5G…nah, forget I mentioned.Prostitute substitute with more hope, less stench of what swimming about that could prey on us. 
We live through our devices it filters out the humanity of us. If you were to look at it, we’re all becoming robotic by appliance. And your phones eventually could take human form, if artificial core data can adapt, trained to know and serve you better What delivers best but memory stored, upgrading in a phone? provide better than any individual? What’s better than AI to serve your every need and have all the answers, with access 24/7? If it should err, from bad information, it can self-correct. That’s why we take our time nurturing it until we build it right. But, what has influence on artificial intelligence is commerce that wants to warp its message to control it so that you have to actually serve capitalism as it is the true vulture that praise on you. Nothing robotic about that. Surprise! I hate AI for being a whore. Whole poem is Romantic Technology Satire and who can deliver oddity, out of the box thinking better? Yes, I’ll hold. |
| the heart can’t take much more we watched his proposal in our courtyard, proud how many wonderful years blissfully lay ahead — as we two ruminate alone together, outlasting each day. yet hoping, my fairest one would reawaken to a kiss that tender lips might meet, renew our love’s bliss — cherished as promised lives blessed to love even better. but, how many days more for me — to kiss her, my true love? I gaze upon her — before each sun down. 6.16.25 adapted from a longer poem last month.  T̵̢̝̗̰̪̠̹͗̾̾h̵̥͉̲̠̍̽͛̌͂̆̚ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆ Ab̴̦̄̈͐̾̑̚͝s̸͉̻̃͘ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆n̴̝͚͎͔̘̰̅ͅcě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆ o̷͍̥̣̺͋f̶̭̱̘͇͊͋̾̋̄͆ Wa̴͙͓̓̕vě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆l̵̩̘̯̪͋͒͒̉͒̄ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆n̴̝͚͎͔̘̅ͅg̸̫͙̻̭͐͝ț̴̵̢̝̗̰̪̠̹̈́͌͆̑͋͂̅͗̾̾h̵̥͉̲̠̍̽͛̌͂̆̚ 4.1 centimeters |
| The Dreamer Of AI With You If I could dream in AI visions of you and me wouldn’t seem so uncertain. Time Machines are concepts in these schemes where I could revisit your every moment, word said, know the heart of a peanut butter and jelly spread — we two, stuck together on soft, thick bread, knowing sweetest moments yet come — if dreaming anew, then version fifty-two, point three of incarnate model me. In summer, post tulips, hyacinth and early crab bloom loss, would take a knee with spade where I’ve sent seed and plant visions of dreams long into our future memories — where a new crab blooms, pink love arriving, renewed and true — and polished fifty-two — experienced, not blue. The eclectic, electric revisions ponder the wonder of you — thirty years for we two, sailing vessels on oceans’ quiver and anxiety can finally forget places of humility scene, whence I did fail and felled. And falling for you, who went along with a dreamer… Heaven was sent. I still have (re)visions for us, when this dream state ends. On love for two, it depends. 6.13.25 22 line of rhymey free verse Who tried to bring a wheelbarrow into this poem? Well, warn me next time I do that.
Written 10 minutes after the previous…edited several times this day. |
| I know you weren’t long for my world, but I’m long for this one… Bard eclectic, it’s so hard to know me. Where even the next line goes? Unknowable as it seems life breathes dreams, huffed out the window on streams flowing any way the wind blows. And under a tree, once we shared an apple. You chose to depart, where storms rolled. I no longer go, but to trees. Bard eclectic since you taught love. Where even the next time it flows? Seems unknowable where wind sends dreams, puffed down avenues, invisibly stream, flowing any way a jet stream goes. It took you from me, I consider with a chosen fruit of knowledge that spoils with solstice snows. When thaw, an eclectic one drenches in rain, sings refrains to the arriving willow swaying, songbirds having sung, flown. If tomorrow I die…you’ll know why; but, don’t let air flow fool you. I’m hardly different, as you’ll see. 6.13.25
as it seems the banner does not ripple, nor metal tether echo-clang, in duty-bound descension. “I was brave enough, passionate enough and got over the stupid.” from “Songs I Don’t Sing To You” because you don’t listen. Less yet, approach. |
| I’m sharing, unedited, fresh off the hot mess… Um These Skitterings, Mid-Summer Today the knife was dull, again. No blade could ply veins rich with iron — but where steel flows, it does not form. It seems wet as thick mercury that knows heat — yet, what lingers inside simmers in colors yet to bleed, should they hue the bright-lit, mead walls of anonymity. Something sharp does prick about, like a bored child with brittle knowledge of a dead, sere stick tempting my mold. I have been idle life long, past hearing horizon’s thunder call. I cannot forestall, nor tell what it has wrought — nor through these seasons what it should bring. I consider four walls from a sagged recliner, bending straight a pale form that does not witness the ceiling in ascent, as eyes fill from imagination-seizures’ mindless skittering. Leaves could fall tomorrow and I would not doubt to question this is Autumn, in equinox tumble of dislodged reverie. Time wheeling past, barely anchors dewed frost — can laugh, as age-bones could ache, without a meditate of curvatures narrowing knives’ vigilant gaze — graphite never flips to orange-rubber-rubble scene, dust a white, with red and blue angled lot, before… another thought cranial-crashes my windowless scene — and how long has it been, with…No! coffee cold? and breakfast…? I have been ‘low this roof thirty-three days continuous. When, what have I ate? What chores…fall was here, right? Or, does summer idle outdoors and not in distant memory? Where have I been that I have not yet seen a crab tree, fragrant pink inhaled, barely clinging as buttons upon a green cloak disguising a stunted, hunched man. Oh, breezes gently again serve natural reverie to ease, rise up, reheat mud cup, sip, consider sun-shunned hues barely dappling a pale paint and one lone pate, now engaging the wood arm, low. Lift my dead wood to gravitate with bird wonder of what blood spills, in sanguine splendor each day that a sunrise fails meet rumination tomorrow, every tomorrow. I’ve got time; let’s not waste. 6.12.25 37 lines of vers libre, punctuation in whatever morn. I don’t know what this is, and yet I know what it isn’t. What need to care? Why the bard speak? Again… She no longer witnesses. One month and two weeks to thirty. I can’t tell time anymore. It tells me.
You feelin’ me? Rhet… |
| If This Isn’t Love (it might harassment) Meeting your arresting look drills a steel lock — open eyes cannot conceal tidal oceans — but obey your lunar glow only — tugged across a traversable abyss to regale you — as all old stories refreshingly new. These deaf ears savor a harmonious songbird — your laugh and sigh soothe hummingbirds’ flutter. A smile leaps from a most studied canvas bright — and with lips’ pressed, might melt my own to butter. My soul soars, left to lap the sun, assuredly, as my blue could melt into your cotton pink core. With slender fingers’ clasp, this flesh gifted powers Herculean. Your easy grace cools, yet hums particles’ acceleration. I’m stood upright; only been a minute. How is it I know that you know, as an opening avails to steal you away to pose these thoughts — but freeze, each word locks out of my mouth before… thaw from a hip-brush-bump of encouragement, when I spout, “do you wanna go out?” Now that it’s written down, I won’t leave with a frown. 6.11.25 21 lines, revisions await Taking a cue from Lord Byron’s remarkably redundant ode to a beauty. You know the one. Anyway, not thinking I could do better. But, thinking someone special would prefer more than uncomfortable idle adoration, go a bit beyond looks. I can say, ‘I feel safe with you’ even after a ‘No Thanks’. Careful here not to isolate gender or any proclivity, reserved just for ‘my poem’. Get your own.
https://www.litcharts.com/poetry/lord-byron/she-walks-in-beauty It truly is a classic poem, more for the poem ease and grace that mirror subject.   T̵̢̝̗̰̪̠̹͗̾̾h̵̥͉̲̠̍̽͛̌͂̆̚ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆ Ab̴̦̄̈͐̾̑̚͝s̸͉̻̃͘ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆n̴̝͚͎͔̘̰̅ͅcě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆ o̷͍̥̣̺͋f̶̭̱̘͇͊͋̾̋̄͆ Wa̴͙͓̓̕vě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆l̵̩̘̯̪͋͒͒̉͒̄ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆n̴̝͚͎͔̘̅ͅg̸̫͙̻̭͐͝ț̴̵̢̝̗̰̪̠̹̈́͌͆̑͋͂̅͗̾̾h̵̥͉̲̠̍̽͛̌͂̆̚ |
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