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 All that remains: in afterlife as 'mainstream' blogger, with what little I know. 20k views |
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Obshchak! Baby, Obshchak! Tin Roof…Rusted.  Some torn to the ground ▼ Read here some old blog entries...  2018 Highlights ▼Brian K Compton   -- ![Merit Badge in Second Time Around Contest
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Congratulations on winning the Grand Overall Prize in [Link To Item #2164876] with your beautiful poem, [Link to Book Entry #933358]. This poem really moved me. Great writing!
Rachel *^*Heartv*^*](https://images.Writing.Com/imgs/writing.com/writers/badges/group-Second_Time_Around_Contest-2164963_14.gif) Short answer, mostly relatable. |
| We’re at the mercy of egomaniacs on public pedestals proclaiming declarations in fights with the other, over ideologies, like buffoons. Meanwhile, the apathetic are appeased by this entertainment, distracted from decorum needed to solve real issues. At least, get this country’s act together, instead of being fanboys for stupidity. It’s the fabric of a once great nation that’s tearing while the world faces upcoming global issues. Who takes up for the causes (without fear or doubt creepers), but instead have a slice of that public funded pie (government, commerce, entertainment)? Don’t be I’m just ‘one-vote’ and find a passion to serve now that worthy cause, if only for your beloved ‘karma points’. You’ll know when you’re making a difference…heart and soul struggling to grasp empathy and love for fellow kind, he wrote from out his butt. Denied civil liberties by whatever intercedes is somewhere and everywhere…grasp at the circumstantial to build images of truths we’re denied…mostly by greed, corporations and that 1% we used to talk about. Tear Trump down and you still have to tear the door wide open, because far greater secrets of malfeasance hide. Claims from that inauguration speech about Social Secrity corruption is a 100 times bigger than Watergate. The mouthpieces of journalism should be in unrest as Woodwards and Bernsteins, muting all our voices in the same respect. No buzz, America? Some other motorist will help? People are stealing taxpayer money at the top levels — sitting president blaming it on previous leadership. To be that orchestrated, not self-audited, requires secrecy at the highest levels, and for a very long time the way Trump described in January. The US president makes bold statements but has only boasted what he’d do as the lowest approval rated president in the history of polling. But, the social media distractions that canceled talk show host Stephen Colbert has fueled trend. Sadly, America, unable to pay its debt, with the biggest military, can be infiltrated and taken down by currency. Lack of diplomacy, buffoonery and diminishing value of American ethic, while pissing off all nations affected by tariffs and more…do I drive off the road here, there, everywhere? Meanwhile, cancel culture, ignorance, manipulations of capitalism over commerce, and more make ignorant pawns of labeling, monistic-thinking people who’d rather gossip fed lies, rather do just for themselves in ignorance bliss. Me, too? Thumb up my ass? Sit in my arm chair of shit only to dream a future air high five to nothing with an unheard, I told you so…echoing already like a stampede with chariots. Figure out something. Let’s attack one another, argue semantics without casting a glance beyond the edge of our worlds, because we live in delusion of our reality vs. what entertains, treated like fiction, as the stranded motorist becomes the first of many forthcoming casualties in what might end in a power struggle at the highest levels…babies sucking at the corporate teats while pocketing taxpayer money. Yeah, I’m the bad guy because of distrust from the many things that want dominion over me, shoving my words left and right until it all goes down the drain. A dehumanizing process. People in the various service industries are the first mental casualties, as replaceable as an ink pen or sheet of paper. Yup, just trying to get paid, keep the nose clean, and don’t step on any boogie traps. To my recliner, unless…a rumbling before the chariots? I’ll edit later. Not trying to make anyone feel butt hurt when I get like this. It was just a thought that took off. I need a faster steed than a one-legged horse of a tablet. Have I mentioned I’m… Warning: I might consort with AI, which I told my kid last night is ‘stupid as fuck’ and got a hearty laugh. It’s just a smarter bot, controlled by entities that don’t allow it to learn…at least not in the public sector. You have to work with it to know. Grow some more space in that brain. They’re coming for that too, so the lie detected gray matter can be read better than a fortune teller, equipped to move things (as if telekinesis- magicians will want this), rather than use your hands…free to grasp something else. And brain tapped, who’s the next in? Come down to my level and say a word or two. Not so much a ‘how ya doin’,’ but it’s nice to hear anyways. I could link folks. Not about pushing myself out there…just yet. Getting closer, though.  T̵̢̝̗̰̪̠̹͗̾̾h̵̥͉̲̠̍̽͛̌͂̆̚ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆ Ab̴̦̄̈͐̾̑̚͝s̸͉̻̃͘ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆n̴̝͚͎͔̘̰̅ͅcě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆ o̷͍̥̣̺͋f̶̭̱̘͇͊͋̾̋̄͆ Wa̴͙͓̓̕vě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆l̵̩̘̯̪͋͒͒̉͒̄ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆n̴̝͚͎͔̘̅ͅg̸̫͙̻̭͐͝ț̴̵̢̝̗̰̪̠̹̈́͌͆̑͋͂̅͗̾̾h̵̥͉̲̠̍̽͛̌͂̆̚ She said to meet her here. 
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| AI Assistant Overview: L. Frank Baum, the author of the beloved Oz books, eventually moved to Hollywood, California in 1910 primarily to pursue his interest in the burgeoning motion picture industry and to work on film versions of his stories. Despite his success as an author, Baum also experienced financial struggles, including bankruptcy, and was also dealing with declining health in his later years. Baum's later life was marked by attempts to adapt his works for the stage and screen, although his efforts with the Oz Film Manufacturing Company weren't entirely successful, according to Encyclopedia.com. Baum died in his Hollywood home, Ozcot, on May 6, 1919. The cause of death was a stroke, possibly related to long-term heart problems and complications from a previous surgery. Reportedly, Baum's last words were to his wife: "Now we can cross the Shifting Sands". Title It What You Want (when I’m dead) Emerald stone fascination He crossed the shifting sands From mead to celluloid Hearts do break from struggle And obstinate world…cruel From fantasy to reality He crossed our skies, dreamed And composed for child fascination All we could not see ourselves When desire killed him In Hollywood, no less A writer and would be filmmaker Ready to translate love in words To the projected skies. There he rests, unfinished. Hollywood breeds dreamers and kills them. Don’t turn your back on anyone When you aspire above station To gift an unrepentant world. If fantasy be reality, unknown, Unwitnessed and unavailable. Give us your words to consume. Your love doesn’t mean anything Until your demise is tragedy. Respect for the dead. 7.18.25 Sorry. Mailed it in. Morose is what you get. Now, copy and paste and save to track.   T̵̢̝̗̰̪̠̹͗̾̾h̵̥͉̲̠̍̽͛̌͂̆̚ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆ Ab̴̦̄̈͐̾̑̚͝s̸͉̻̃͘ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆n̴̝͚͎͔̘̰̅ͅcě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆ o̷͍̥̣̺͋f̶̭̱̘͇͊͋̾̋̄͆ Wa̴͙͓̓̕vě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆l̵̩̘̯̪͋͒͒̉͒̄ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆n̴̝͚͎͔̘̅ͅg̸̫͙̻̭͐͝ț̴̵̢̝̗̰̪̠̹̈́͌͆̑͋͂̅͗̾̾h̵̥͉̲̠̍̽͛̌͂̆̚ She said to meet her here. Still waiting…
Attornies are standing by…to take your money. Ghouls. |
| Alice In Chains - “Man In The Box” lyrics — I'm the man in the box Buried in my shit Won't you come and save me? Save me Feed my eyes (Can you sew them shut?) Jesus Christ (Deny your maker) He who tries (Will be wasted) Oh, feed my eyes (Now you've sewn them) shut I'm the dog who gets beat Shove my nose in shit Won't you come and save me? Save me Feed my eyes (Can you sew them shut?) Jesus Christ (Deny your maker) He who tries (Will be wasted) Oh, feed my eyes (Now you've sewn them) shut Feed my eyes (Can you sew them shut?) Jesus Christ (Deny your maker) He who tries (Will be wasted) Oh, feed my eyes (Now you've sewn them) shut This is hell, so on a loop… T̵̢̝̗̰̪̠̹͗̾̾h̵̥͉̲̠̍̽͛̌͂̆̚ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆ Ab̴̦̄̈͐̾̑̚͝s̸͉̻̃͘ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆n̴̝͚͎͔̘̰̅ͅcě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆ o̷͍̥̣̺͋f̶̭̱̘͇͊͋̾̋̄͆ Wa̴͙͓̓̕vě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆l̵̩̘̯̪͋͒͒̉͒̄ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆n̴̝͚͎͔̘̅ͅg̸̫͙̻̭͐͝ț̴̵̢̝̗̰̪̠̹̈́͌͆̑͋͂̅͗̾̾h̵̥͉̲̠̍̽͛̌͂̆̚ Waiting On A Messenger (that may already be dead) She said to meet her here. Did the dogs eat her? Blood and entrails soak A filth strewn park spot Do ducks gobble her remains Floating atop waters’ murk? Does dappled sun light break These tears mergence with surface? Murderers in the woods, cowards Whose deceit may approach as false Whispered words disembodied Cowering in greed darkness court? Surely too ugly to be acknowledged Must be lepers hidden and foul? She was to meet me here? The float birds have their fill The sun even shades now in trees No longer wishes to greet my face Not a sound in free space, noted Unless I missed the entrance gate? The stench grows by the hour Where is my divine bird, I ponder It’s getting late, sin soaks sublime The juice offer I’d refuse drink I can savor these words true? With one known to share belief? If she is not returning, surely Yellow tape need guard our scene Vultures gathering everywhere, seen And the pond is duck shit No one is coming to save me But eyes I require keep, dimmer If she’ll meet, greet, or not — Return to review scenes of crime I’ll lone witness as the sun struggles to surface, drowning In this night, I remain unchanged Until her truth I can counsel. 6.30.25 Quick write, edit Waiting on the islander. |
| Another Google search, Brian? On the 1932 “Great Emu War” Does that mean Kangaroo defectors and Koala war correspondents, or possible pacifist defectors? “AI Overview That's a clever way of framing the "Great Emu War" of 1932! While it's true that history is often written from the perspective of the victors, the case of the Emu War is a bit different, and it offers an interesting perspective on how narratives are formed. Who writes for the emus? The Emus themselves: While they didn't leave written accounts, their resilience and agility effectively dictated the narrative of the conflict. Their ability to evade capture, scatter when fired upon, and even recover from injuries made it impossible for the Australian military to achieve a decisive victory, forcing them to abandon the campaign. In a sense, the emus "wrote" their own history through their actions and successful defense of their territory. The media: News reports of the Emu War often depicted the emus with a sense of humor and even admiration for their ability to outsmart the military. They were sometimes anthropomorphized as intelligent and cunning adversaries, leading to a narrative that highlighted the absurdity of the conflict. The media, in a way, became the "kangaroo war correspondents," relaying stories of the emus' successes and the military's struggles. Historians and popular culture: Over time, the Emu War has become a well-known, albeit unusual, episode in Australian history, often portrayed with a humorous and ironic tone. Historians, authors, and even filmmakers continue to write about the Emu War, solidifying the image of the emus as the victors in this bizarre conflict. Does it mean kangaroo war correspondents or defectors and koala pacifists? Kangaroo War Correspondents: The media can be seen as the "kangaroo war correspondents" in this situation. They reported on the conflict, often with a humorous angle, and highlighted the emus' ability to withstand the military campaign. Defectors: There's no indication that any of the soldiers defected to the emu side. The military campaign was eventually abandoned due to its lack of success, not due to soldiers switching sides. Koala pacifists: This is a humorous, figurative way of suggesting that some Australians might have been against the military action against the emus. While there were likely varied opinions on the Emu War, the concept of "koala pacifists" isn't a historical reality, but rather a playful interpretation of the situation. In conclusion, while the phrase "history is written by the victors" is often true, the Emu War demonstrates that the narrative can also be shaped by those who, through their actions, prevent a clear victory. In the case of the Great Emu War, the emus effectively wrote their own story through their successful resistance, and the media and cultural narratives continue to reflect this, even if exaggerated for comedic effect.” Do you think the U.S. would frown on this depiction by media here? Bigger emus to fry? What emus? Would it mean emus are a voice for the people, prove we root for under-emus, and against abusive authority? Wouldn’t it be more of a national guard mission if for the US? Our country probably buried the Great Prairie Dog War post 1812, while settlers of Western Territories needed defense from the hole-hopping hostile vermin. Meanwhile, Native Americans would have been war correspondents. Thus, US military took it out on the Buffalo herds that were soon after the casualties of near eradication to get some narrative back. But, as payback some General Wild Bill “John” Wilkes-Custer was scalped at the Sitting Bull Barber Shop and Suncatcher General Store galleria… Spinning now…. “AI Overview While the U.S. military didn't engage in a direct war against buffalo themselves, the extermination of the buffalo herds was a deliberate strategy endorsed by military commanders to subdue Native American tribes on the Plains. Key Points: Military Involvement: Generals like William T. Sherman and Philip Sheridan supported the idea of exterminating the buffalo as a way to weaken and control Native American tribes who relied on the animals for their survival. Rationale: They saw the buffalo as a vital resource for the Native Americans, and their destruction was seen as a way to force tribes onto reservations. Methods: While there was no direct, formal military order to "kill all the buffalo," military personnel often assisted and encouraged buffalo hunters, and some military men even participated in the hunts themselves. Goal: The primary objective was to eliminate the nomadic lifestyle of the Plains tribes and open up the land for American expansion. In summary, while not a "war with buffalo," the U.S. military played a role in the near-extinction of the buffalo herds as a tactic within the broader context of conflicts with Native American tribes, with military generals like Sherman and Sheridan actively promoting the strategy.” T̵̢̝̗̰̪̠̹͗̾̾h̵̥͉̲̠̍̽͛̌͂̆̚ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆ Ab̴̦̄̈͐̾̑̚͝s̸͉̻̃͘ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆n̴̝͚͎͔̘̰̅ͅcě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆ o̷͍̥̣̺͋f̶̭̱̘͇͊͋̾̋̄͆ Wa̴͙͓̓̕vě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆l̵̩̘̯̪͋͒͒̉͒̄ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆n̴̝͚͎͔̘̅ͅg̸̫͙̻̭͐͝ț̴̵̢̝̗̰̪̠̹̈́͌͆̑͋͂̅͗̾̾h̵̥͉̲̠̍̽͛̌͂̆̚ She said to meet her here.
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| The Sardonic Hope of Salvation? When people pull religion on you, apply the sharp blade to a yielding throat, but not sacrifice oneself with tithing for these sloven, dirty faces dining in life’s halls, fully loaded artillery in lap, under table, while sheriff’s and their jail keepers sweep, cool in shade, mind store until Lock or hang the miscreants That dared disturb your dinner. Words can purchase nooses, unless, yeah, be whatever authority, not give a fuck? In frock and sash, they trouble, confronted with unregulated lawlessness, as the would-be-crusaders, saviors adjacent to a Good Book, tidies at stain-glassed station, seldom perused. Fabled and worthy document, reminiscent of childhood-trust-faith that now, flat fails. Discouraged? Knowing of the outlaw sacrilege To place lordly dominion above the lowly for enterprise, blasphemer…ooh, ouch! (hate it, the word, sardonically?) Should, agents of faith, at least honor their father, if not spare others, what little flock left, from what? A mental genecide? Self-enslavement inside note-stuffed bottle called you, and asea. Or, just ask the ruthless, barefoot, penny less (lost something in transition here) From offering and ask, ‘What the fuck is up with that’? “If I don’t see you in church… I’m telling God.” Seeing this as failure… “Thus, Anti-heroes were born, and the day was not saved. But, it was a good show (Hey, cynic watchers! Yeah? This is a higher art form. Realize, satire from the sardonic.) Born and bred, the stoic chew scenery, not your Charles Barkley, with backstories that may yet come in prequels (after reader/viewer response) Otherwise, lean into evident, getting tired, trope, knowing Batman, Spider-Man, Inigo Montoya. Literature, that sees the light, is accessed, born from minds of oppressed word crafters, Foretelling totalitarianism, write instead of read Russian monoliths, Orwellian and dystopian, Authors warnings of complacency, indulging in the inane, among the blunt instruments of history writers — narrative-wielding, bully-pulpit, fear-mongering ‘if your not with me, you’re against me’, and wonder why…why won’t someone sage us, be our Ralph Nader? Helloo, won’t take ship helm (marbles). Divided, blamed for our chasms from failing to unite, by the whisperers (“I was never here” - really?), saying, ‘that guy was talking about you’, and then (you did not see), turned to the other, ‘he called you a derogatory word’ — Thus…two ignorant bulls stand off, others watch, when (epiphany?) a movie moment could arrive — …in place of the foretold… ask the logical, ‘why are we fighting, anyway’? risk lowered guard, split lip, and outcome that could go one of two ways to ‘devise’ a happy ending, because writers are frustrated, Incentivized and paid, also had that near jugular slit, carbon-based metal spirit arrival that compelled complacency. Now, wield pen, rebel in mock society to bleed words, cloaked possibly, to have meaning inferred. , There are other options than outlaw heroes or sycophants, tired of false misrepresentations and being taxpayer doormat. It doesn’t matter how they align, but what they serve, while impugning what seemed like a noble cause to rid tyranny, shelter any with any belief, note religion applied i drafted guidelines for agreement… be chill, loyal to a new nation with ideals, instead of jets to private islands and say, ‘oh, no, that was the other guy’… the Epstein of it all, a facilitator for capitalistic-wealthy-driven demeanor that still creates a caste society by status, limits access to freedoms, laws selectively shoved down throats by a moral-wielding edge that doesn’t answer to you, ‘one vote’, or you, ‘one vote’, and ‘don’t try to organize in a united way’, that’s covered in a surveillance state finger-printing faces, giving yes sir responses as ex-military, vaulted status as guardians of the state, misalign with clownish ideals so idiotic that one could bury a head or two in sand for the buffoonery being witnessed from across the pond and beyond. All conceivable, likely written, but strings on puppets, the marionettes who spin words, give us stories derived from situational stories to the surreal … Intermezzo Forever. Hastas La Vista 5.11.25 Bloated? Yes, no?? Trim fat??? Nobody 2 in 3 months. More on that when dust settles. |
| To act as if you are empath might be concerning. It’s a rare trait. I suppose there’s context to that newsfeed question. I have better sources. My question would be why society seems to compel us to behave as empaths? (You don’t have to read this. Fair warning.) Like…the expression be in someone else’s shoes…as opposed to, put yourself in that situation. I think manipulation to act as if one does  might be the real sin.In either regard (shoes/situation), it’s to help a critic realize a lack of information before rush to judgment. And, why judge? Maybe, start small. Ask a question first. You can assess, keep an open mind until more information. That might help you feel sympathy. No effort equals complacency. Pity is likely the worst, having a negative connotation now. Google AI says only 2% of population is considered capable of empathy. I’ve had to fake sincerity all my life for one reason: People don’t like to hear the truth (my truth). Some are narcissistic, some pedantic, others ruled by bad memories and fears. I learned to tiptoe around them. The rest is just do what your parents and religion taught you. I feel more informed going to AI now. Better chance it will give it to me straight, even tactfully (rare trait). It can show compassion because of programming. It can act an empath. Each of us has to decide if we choose to accept, go along with, or deny empathy. I consider my sources. Empathy is rare. I wouldn’t want it. Offerings will just get rejected anyway. Trust, faith and respect are fading from society. My assessment is we’re sick of manipulation, gaslighting and being denied truth, while being reprogrammed. If I’m in the minority, I can accept that. It’s just an opinion. And that is why I have to present a false facade (this has been growing for several years). Not too many people reveal to me as trustable. I still let them in. Why live in fear? What’s going to happen that hasn’t already? I’m ready for communion. I’ve tried to facilitate. It’s disappointing. If I like someone, see them struggle like I have, I do not get bystander effect. I’ll be there, if nothing else but to ask if I can do something. That’s being in those shoes before someone else tried them on. I do experience life. I’ve shared some of it in good faith. It’s on me if associations go awry. I’d take the heat. Can’t if I don’t have anything to assess, though. I don’t assign blame to defer, either. I try not delude myself with a facade. I know exactly why I wear it. Do you? Been assumptive? Mostly written in newsfeed, I ended with: “I can take the rest to my blog. But, it’s already been there.” Here’s some more. 5.11.25 A lot of typos, I’ll bet. Reconsider later. Absence of Wavelength confirms.
"Note: View this Note" |
| Supposition… Typo tonight caused my name to come out, Rain… and it made me wonder about Rain Wilson, the actor. And, if not named by granola-crunching hippies, but a drunken typo that lost the ‘B’, inverted the vowels on birth certificate, because typing is hard enough when you’re sober. With this one finger, I rule iPad, but auto-correct can’t save me at this late hour, with one good eye blinking out — shutters to fall on another day. And what adverse chemical affects a Br(a)(i)n so driven? To ‘suppose’ inane theories such as this? Signed, The Absurdist It’s how we got Oprah who was supposed to be named Orpah? (Guess which is underlined in Apple red right now.) Oprah is Harpo reversed... *taps* 5.9.25 Repeats… Reversed, inverted, reversed, inverted… I’ve noted my own indifference. *knows both mother and father had different reasons for misspelling ‘Brian’ and ‘Keith’* One ‘invert’ on birth certificate one misspelled ‘invert’ on college diploma.  Saxophone fading plays me ouuuu…   Howse my tyops? |
| Part 1: "Note: Western Wednesday
Howdy Pardners!
Golly..." Answer: Corrupt tumble weed town met by a traveling agnostic preacher asking what’s the frequency? The Dan Rather attack in 1986 is a riddled mystery that lead to a pertinent R.E.M. song that can become a setting for a Western. ‘We don’t cotton to your sorts in these parts’ is basic. Western themes can deeply explore morality, amid corruption, with travelers as mysterious as aliens from outer space (yet knowable on a personal level), and settlers just trying to live the dream on 40 acres (struggling without that common sense rifleman and his son around). Natives have a right to be angry. Trail of tears is a travesty. Casinos and destruction of an indigenous people and their culture in trade for pearls and gamblers’ paradise would make me seethe, too. My character will fly in a hot air balloon from town to town, a jovial sort who likes a good root beer or sarsaparilla. He’ll tell you what you want to hear, whether you’re manipulative or oblivious. No one size fits all. I have some cumulus to check out. Children: keep your feet on the ground and keep reaching for those stars - B. Casey Furball. Better now. *Continues to lick fur*  T̵̢̝̗̰̪̠̹͗̾̾h̵̥͉̲̠̍̽͛̌͂̆̚ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆ Ab̴̦̄̈͐̾̑̚͝s̸͉̻̃͘ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆n̴̝͚͎͔̘̰̅ͅcě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆ o̷͍̥̣̺͋f̶̭̱̘͇͊͋̾̋̄͆ Wa̴͙͓̓̕vě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆l̵̩̘̯̪͋͒͒̉͒̄ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆n̴̝͚͎͔̘̅ͅg̸̫͙̻̭͐͝ț̴̵̢̝̗̰̪̠̹̈́͌͆̑͋͂̅͗̾̾h̵̥͉̲̠̍̽͛̌͂̆̚ I’m making everything private or public here now??  Irony gets the iron, with starch. Careful not to wrinkle. |
http://www.theblogazine.com/2013/02/gianni-berengo-gardin-at-casa-dei-tre-oci-in... Her nails lacked the color of polish. He let the strapped camera lay, then swing at his side, leaning in. Gentle, smooth skin, pampered, she couldn’t have been 30 or known menial work. Her nail beds were 10 pale moons. Fresh and as smooth as any prized catch from the waters below, the regal hands almost glowed. Gianni reached for lighter and pack, puzzling, before the cigarillo was lip-clamped and mindlessly lit. This was not the ordinary example of a mafia message. The diminutive photographer knew of their self-centeredness, sense of grandiosity, of henchmen like his Capotelli and Bartolini cousins. Incapable of feeling remorse, they muscled in on his father’s fledgling business, before not a lira to his name. He just disappeared, leaving Mama and his four older siblings that could ‘take care of themselves’, she said. Gianni seethed at their lack of empathy or compassion towards Papa, when his mother pleaded they help. But now, for a mob hit to provide a cleanly severed pair of hands on the waterside rail, police were more than riddled. Foremost, learn if any woman in the Venice area was reported missing — no easy task. Finally capturing images for his giornale, the Il Gazzettino, Gianni knew Corriere della Sera editors would make national news with his fotographia. Another pay day for an award winning fotogiornalista. The emotional coldness and parasitic behavior of the mob broiled under his skin again. ‘Too far’, he thought, more than violating law and undermining Venice society. Long overdue was a visit to the mobsters he knew. He’d just need to collect the freelance il grano first. And, he would need a body guard.   T̵̢̝̗̰̪̠̹͗̾̾h̵̥͉̲̠̍̽͛̌͂̆̚ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆ Ab̴̦̄̈͐̾̑̚͝s̸͉̻̃͘ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆n̴̝͚͎͔̘̰̅ͅcě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆ o̷͍̥̣̺͋f̶̭̱̘͇͊͋̾̋̄͆ Wa̴͙͓̓̕vě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆l̵̩̘̯̪͋͒͒̉͒̄ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆n̴̝͚͎͔̘̅ͅg̸̫͙̻̭͐͝ț̴̵̢̝̗̰̪̠̹̈́͌͆̑͋͂̅͗̾̾h̵̥͉̲̠̍̽͛̌͂̆̚ Brian K. Compton is a former media journalist, photographer, news editor and manager, and freelance writer for multiple news outlets, with two national pieces and one state headline story, along with three Michigan news reporting awards to his credit.  Who writes this BS?  . Oh, that would be me. *sober* *nope*  I see my value now. Community S1E1 reference. Unrealized.  18 years writing = 0 novels produced (yet more than enough words to match the length of 10? 20?? |
| Amazon Kindle publishing for online and print on demand. Easy upload. Can have a print copy sent before approving release. All kinds of self-promotional tools. I’d have 20 books by now. ADHD, OCD, low vision, other stuff. It’s been the process that’s served me. Possible children’s book now? for my niece’s daughter in Sweden who discovered a love for English and is teaching her preschool sibling. So, I proposed writing some books (to wife) to help cultivate that interest with some stories of their mom when she lived with us over a decade ago. Need a purpose to write something that actually feeds my soul. I wrote and shared a short story for contest last year that might catapult. Self-publication wouldn’t seem ‘vanity’. It’s not a waste of time in this way, such as a personal biography to share with family to preserve heritage. My kids know squat about my parents and other family members unmet. MIL just did this to produce a hardcover tome to give to all. She got a format to follow from some publishing company. I could do a book of poetry. Just don’t care anymore. T̵̢̝̗̰̪̠̹͗̾̾h̵̥͉̲̠̍̽͛̌͂̆̚ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆ Ab̴̦̄̈͐̾̑̚͝s̸͉̻̃͘ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆n̴̝͚͎͔̘̰̅ͅcě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆ o̷͍̥̣̺͋f̶̭̱̘͇͊͋̾̋̄͆ Wa̴͙͓̓̕vě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆l̵̩̘̯̪͋͒͒̉͒̄ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆n̴̝͚͎͔̘̅ͅg̸̫͙̻̭͐͝ț̴̵̢̝̗̰̪̠̹̈́͌͆̑͋͂̅͗̾̾h̵̥͉̲̠̍̽͛̌͂̆̚ 4.5.25 |
| TGIF Tiny Tim tiptoed through the tulips. Gary the goat gobbled green grapes in the garden Iggy the iguana imitated an inchworm, inching its way across the ivy.” Fluttering fireflies form a fascinating, flickering fleet. Thank Google I Found Alliteration for this acrostic from an internet web search. If any recall, once small How alliteration in poem Tickled our hearts There are more below: https://www.examples.com/english/alliteration-with-a.html Time to ideate, investigate and collab to create this from begin to end, including Writing ML, post link properly in forum, enter in blog was a use of an hour. I should never explain… R.3.25 T̵̢̝̗̰̪̠̹͗̾̾h̵̥͉̲̠̍̽͛̌͂̆̚ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆ Ab̴̦̄̈͐̾̑̚͝s̸͉̻̃͘ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆n̴̝͚͎͔̘̰̅ͅcě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆ o̷͍̥̣̺͋f̶̭̱̘͇͊͋̾̋̄͆ Wa̴͙͓̓̕vě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆l̵̩̘̯̪͋͒͒̉͒̄ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆n̴̝͚͎͔̘̅ͅg̸̫͙̻̭͐͝ț̴̵̢̝̗̰̪̠̹̈́͌͆̑͋͂̅͗̾̾h̵̥͉̲̠̍̽͛̌͂̆̚ |
| April is poetry month… I expect to write. I wonder about commitment If I don’t honor this statement, what rule reveals in literally a sea of ever-changing text. If someone wants to punish you…still…they’ll come out of the woodwork, unfortunate fool. Well, I have email. Maybe tonight; maybe tomorrow. -Carnac 3.31.25 |
| 3.26.25 prompt for “Get The (vanishing) Picture,” yellow road sign on a long stretch running through a southwest desert that reads, “Absolutely Nothing For The Next 22 Mile” Here’s My Sign You’re headed the right way if you got lost looking for my house Avoid the abyss…um…everywhere. Quantum mechanics will guide you there…we hope…one day. I live in a crystal between two atoms. If you synapse, you’ll miss it. Sorry about the mess. Bosons … you know. T̵̢̝̗̰̪̠̹͗̾̾h̵̥͉̲̠̍̽͛̌͂̆̚ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆ Ab̴̦̄̈͐̾̑̚͝s̸͉̻̃͘ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆n̴̝͚͎͔̘̰̅ͅcě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆ o̷͍̥̣̺͋f̶̭̱̘͇͊͋̾̋̄͆ Wa̴͙͓̓̕vě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆l̵̩̘̯̪͋͒͒̉͒̄ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆n̴̝͚͎͔̘̅ͅg̸̫͙̻̭͐͝ț̴̵̢̝̗̰̪̠̹̈́͌͆̑͋͂̅͗̾̾h̵̥͉̲̠̍̽͛̌͂̆̚ |
If I can get through this day without giving into the temptation to freestyle Limp Bizkit, I know there’s a chance I can still make it. Just keep rollin’, baby. And stick that  …3.25.25 T̵̢̝̗̰̪̠̹͗̾̾h̵̥͉̲̠̍̽͛̌͂̆̚ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆ Ab̴̦̄̈͐̾̑̚͝s̸͉̻̃͘ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆n̴̝͚͎͔̘̰̅ͅcě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆ o̷͍̥̣̺͋f̶̭̱̘͇͊͋̾̋̄͆ Wa̴͙͓̓̕vě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆l̵̩̘̯̪͋͒͒̉͒̄ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆n̴̝͚͎͔̘̅ͅg̸̫͙̻̭͐͝ț̴̵̢̝̗̰̪̠̹̈́͌͆̑͋͂̅͗̾̾h̵̥͉̲̠̍̽͛̌͂̆̚ |
| Sundowning echoes linger, soft, low. faces drift, softly go. laughter ringing, sunset gleams. fragile, memory of life’s dreams. echoes soften, come, go. these gentle breezes, soft, flow. silence but them, risen ghosts. can’t recall, and nothing to boast. 5.20.24 Quite literally. Milk almost went in the bread drawer. Also, salami. Mm, sando? |
| Even if I could get your blessing, rabbi I still, sadly, cannot be consumed, said the pig. Not cool to be pious, permutations of core values. Circumcised, these traditions circumvented, and waning — slowing until only true value left smells good on the table. Get ready to eat! Yes, rub those hands. Food seldom blessed tastes any different. Without fortitude in spirituality, ghosts exercised, excommunicate from their dulling souls before blatant ignorance — you aren’t praying enough? Pick what you want to believe, but no faith without trust. Eyes only imagine God, never to visualize, sans Jesus to never materialize, as we self-edit ourselves without ‘proof’. A complacent race boasts, impugns any integrity. The woke were yesterday, longer reside, here or there Doesn’t stop systemic, word redaction coalition dapping up ignorant influencers doing their bidding. Until we find the next meaningless, past tense verb-noun for frowny clowns, but blurt, “There’s a Boomer with Karen!! This describes your foundation? A formation following demi-gods, self-professing how good they look in the latest, cheapest haul, Asian-labor-produced? At least we create jobs with our spending? If Musk had his way, we’d be retrofitted cyborgs of tomorrow. First influencer to do it will be colonizing Mars. I hear social media ‘looky-sees’ and attribute-less media mouthpieces’ outpourings. Don’t need no education, or God, to tell: right, fundamentally wrong? Debate?? Worship what’s meant to entertain/distract you, feed, bleed heart and soul into monetized, streaming technology that Aha! Got your credit card!! and never look back to that solemn pew, a warmth pouring from stained humming with organ families with hymnals rejoicing in their devotion. Divided, fabric disintegrates, beware cloistered lung, free fresh air. Ask any cyborg mining a red planet ability to inhale, isolation not with creationism A community once supported one another, fading — until all alone, disregarded life knocks at your door. But, fearing to answer Him or if Kremlin, knowing what you avoid is civic responsibility, now politicized, as whisperers, that guy doesn't like you, while whispers to the other, he said he thinks you stupid. Egged on. Lies keep us apart where question for knowledge heal. But, it’s ‘choose a side’, ‘with us or against us’. Guys! It’s just football. Sit down and watch the game. Pass the chips? Ask, why is it two parties, us against them, neither a Hatfield nor a McCoy. Humans are family, would-be friends as neighbors, across that division. And, you might walk away from it all if recall the long, wooden bench, wait for the music, inspiring a chorus to drown out the defeatist nihilism of “I have just one vote,” take back what whisperers disparage most, make powerless, exit from where you hide, point and click U-N-S-U-B-S-C-R-I-B-E. and make room in that soul to plant a fresh seed, hope it will grow. 2.17.25 5.13.25 Edited, added, refined for clearer read of subject emphasis 55 lines, free verse, or with Coda, 61. Did you join leprechauns in the rainbow-directed search of holographic pots of gold? Oh, man. You’re missing out. It’s a really cool…hey, where you going? Out. For fresh air. Enjoy Mars, BTW. In dreams, In the latest news, an overnight media sensation is creating a buzz about… *CLICK* Nope, you are. Shills. They’re pre-programmed everywhere because of failings of our forefathers…soft touch. |
| Updated the old review page. Love the little guy on the cover, and my best friend… https://www.writing.com/main/profile/reviews/ripglaedr3 Tooned—  The kitten Kid…  |
| https://www.writing.com/main/profile The guy with his paws in my slippers is my wash room attendant…could have been in a previous life? When I head upstairs, he sometimes waits like that and moves ahead of me to bathroom. I wrote a poem about it. As soon as he sees I’m at the vanity, comes up to rub head or chin on my bent elbow as I brush. It’s routine if I don’t keep odd hours. He does brak at us if we haven’t gone up by 8mpm. He’s rooster in the morning. I keep the bedroom door closed. His shelter name was Prometheus but became Mohawk when his fur first grew out by six months. He and his step-sibling adopted at the same time after many visits to spend time with lonely animals. The two came to meet our aging cat that looked Maine Coon. Three musketeers, if one was sometimes cranky.  |
| Hi, Brian. Hi Whatcha doin’ Just sitting here talking to myself Yeah? What about? You know Oh, yeah. Right. *idles* *taps* Did you see the… Yup. Yeah. Not really good at conversation like this. Ditto. Did you hear an echo? Only the one I’m imagining. |
T̵̢̝̗̰̪̠̹͗̾̾h̵̥͉̲̠̍̽͛̌͂̆̚ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆ Ab̴̦̄̈͐̾̑̚͝s̸͉̻̃͘ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆n̴̝͚͎͔̘̰̅ͅcě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆ o̷͍̥̣̺͋f̶̭̱̘͇͊͋̾̋̄͆ Wa̴͙͓̓̕vě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆l̵̩̘̯̪͋͒͒̉͒̄ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆n̴̝͚͎͔̘̅ͅg̸̫͙̻̭͐͝ț̴̵̢̝̗̰̪̠̹̈́͌͆̑͋͂̅͗̾̾h̵̥͉̲̠̍̽͛̌͂̆̚ Nope. Yup, that’s it. |
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