Birth parents

Today is my 54th birthday. On this day, a Friday in 1965, my mother gave birth to me, the records say, at the Cleveland Clinic in the holy hour (3-4 a.m.).

She was 16, my birth father, 17.

From what I could tell from the “non-identifying” information I was charged $50 for when I was 23,

Seemingly, I had more in common with my father. Height, basketball, class president, a penchant for trains. My mother, who sacrificed a semester to deal with me, was fond of camping and played a musical instrument.

The Children Services letterhead, since the Red Feather agency (I think that was the name) had long since disbanded adding yet another level of erasure to my already amorphous existential origin- the letterhead and contents of this letter are all I have of my heritage, my genealogy, my DNA. Who you would say I am.

Always watched but never seen

Records of our days, cataloged with no sentiment allowed to obscure the meta data (subjective conjecture need not apply) dot the landscape, forming an infinite grid of mortality.

Mortal implies limits, so an infinite grid of solely self-aware beings, our qualia, in particular, not involving anyone or anything else, carries each individual’s uniqueness, believing we are the onliest as our way of coping with the fact that as far as we know, this existence is finite.

I tell you bout the onliest man I knowed come from Virginia.

Self-awareness consciously knows and understands character, feelings, motives, and desires.

feelings, motives, and desires.

There are two broad categories of self-awareness: internal self-awareness and external self-awareness.[3]

External self v Internal self

These mean very different things to you and me.

You see, by our society’s standards, I have no reference for the internal kind. Everything I got I learned without the leg up of familiar tradition, unspoken understanding and qualifying acceptance. In a way, I’ve always had to prove I am not a mistake even though clearly that is all I amounted to in the end, a foolish mistake for my mother to regret.

For some adoptees, particularly those who’ve experienced early childhood trauma such as neglect or abuse, it may be difficult to form emotional bonds. Some studies suggest that adoptees may also be at higher risk for depression, anxiety, learning disabilities, attention deficit hyperactivity disorder (ADHD), or substance abuse.

Me at 22 in NZ

This started as a very different piece but between the narcissist showing me his drawing without caring about my writing kind of interrupted the flow.

The fact that I can’t really ever relax or do something mildly extravagant because I can never seem to get ahead, I’m terrible at getting reimbursed and in general, there are a million things I want to do, see, hear, and learn and chasing down the ability to just survive (it’s been that way for 20 years in the film and television industry) isn’t really my thing-the fact that I can’t really celebrate isn’t where I had hoped to be by now.

I’m tired. Tired of this particular existence that, the longer I live, seems more and more futile. Everything we were told was either a lie or a myth and now I’m in no position to take on the world as I once was, having been severely beaten, tortured and most recrntly mugged and stabbed in the past three years.

That’s not even the half of it. That’s not even what makes me sad. It’s the lack of friends I find myself enduring these days. The sadness just never goes away.

My sixth birthday

Scorpio Moon

Here it comes

Here it comes

It’s just your

nineteenth

nervous

breakdown

“Writing is … what I do to justify the air I breathe,” Nikki Giovanni once wrote in Contemporary Authors. “I have been considered a writer who writes from rage and it confuses me. What else do writers write from? A poem has to say something. It has to make some sort of sense; be lyrical; to the point; and still able to be read by whatever reader is kind enough to pick up the book.”

without any assistance or guidance from you
i have loved you assiduously for 8 months 2 wks & a day
i have been stood up four times
i’ve left 7 packages on yr doorstep
forty poems 2 plants & 3 handmade notecards i left
town so i cd send to you have been no help to me
on my job
you call at 3:00 in the mornin on weekdays
so i cd drive 27 1/2 miles cross the bay before i go to work
charmin charmin
but you are of no assistance
i want you to know
this waz an experiment
to see how selifsh i cd be
if i wd really carry on to snare a possible lover
if i waz capable of debasin my self for the love of another
if i cd stand not being wanted
when i wanted to be wanted
& i cannot
so
with no further assistance & no guidance from you
i am endin this affair

this note is attached to a plant
i’ve been waterin since the day i met you
you may water it
yr damn self

–Ntozake Shange

Artificial Verse

MIT has developed a machine that writes poetry based on keywords you provide.


I watch her frown. I cry hello.

The otak is tiny, soft and deep,
But she has promises to keep,

She rises from her bitter bed,
With thoughts of sadness in her head,
She idolises being dead.
Facing the day with never ending dread.


Woah, dude.

As a disclaimer the site alludes to its plagiarized unity. Wait a minute that sounds too familiar, I thought. Sure enough, the toads divulged in the mellow wood and I, A.I. took the road less traveled by and that motherfuc*&ers has made all the difference

This never happens because Catholicism

A Hombre Alone

With thanks to the poet, Robert Frost, for the underlying structure.


The Road Not Taken 

Launch Audio in a New Window

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

8.20.19 helicopter overhead

They hover. They circle back, you try to figure out if they’re on the freeway (which one? You’re between two, always, for some reason, since you’ve been confined to this god-foresaken town.

Eyewitnesses are notoriously unreliable –

Mark Gordon’s Criminal Minds Paget Brewster

Who I’ve loved since HUFF where she played Hank Azaria’s (mo/apu+ on da Simpsons)

The

Simpsons did it

-South Park

What we’re they thinking?

The hunt.

More like the cunt. Who wrote that script? What’s wrong with Oscar winner in and out burger girl playing the role of elite killing “deplorable”? And who calls fellow countrymen whose vote your brain seeks but heart rejects, as if political turmoil does anyone any good. As if voting with your vagina.hadn’t been issued from a condescending cunt.

Which curiously auto corrects to cube every fucking time.

That’s the outside world.

In my interior realm, all is tumultuous and at odds with my brain. I’m better than this. Than what? Right on the heels of ranting and raving binge watching you watching me oh my goodness we said worried that waiting for Godot might be real, after all,

I thought I should document my ascent with the sane Isame insightful precision with which I partake in self-esteem inflicted srlf-flaggellation as in the scarlet letter – do things never change?

Cue zombies

I know that guy.

12 most…who you looking at, foo…?

Please be creative with your titles: smart, short and eye-catching.

Disciple.

The St. of Discipline.

Henry Miller.

He had settled on the most magnificent piece of property on the far flung coast, years after starving had given way to dilettante displays of attention propped up by fangirls in their sunned entrances wearing summer dresses.

Fortunes change
Your summer has come

Using a creative, impactful adjective after “12 Most” can go a long way. Check out the posts on this website for reference and whatever you do, avoid using adjectives that have been overused (ie: common, important, useful…).

Don’t ever change

He gasped holding his chest breathing pained and desperate now

Until he got out the words —-


The shoe

Had made quite an impression

on the ex-former-felon

What’re you in for

Hybrid crimes

of dispassionate times


Moral Prejudices

Marlin Rand woke up, asleep, a dream within a living nightmare.

You like to daydream, huhn?

Head lost in the clouds.

Are you listening?

Listening not hearing. The world retracts into a distance illuminated by your reflection, the sun shaft reaching that taillight, sending shards of red through the blinds. Why do we call then blinds? Why are screen doors not calls deafs?

The noise is deafening.

The hard drive is named Friedrich Nietzsche, the router Liza Minnelli and the broadband a traveling troupe of Keynesian mechanics with carpetbaggers galore.

Absurd, says Cumquat Jones, the nommedeplume of Tennessee Williams’ unknown soldier.

… his “hypotheses” on the origins of morality to reading his friend Paul Rée’s book The Origin of the Moral Sensations (1877) and finding the “genealogical hypotheses” offered there unsatisfactory.

Nietzsche decided that “a critique of moral values” was needed, that “the value of these values themselves must be called into question”. To this end Nietzsche provides a history of morality, rather than a hypothetical account in the style of Rée, whom Nietzsche classifies as an “English psychologist”[2] (using “English” to designate an intellectual temperament, as distinct from a nationality).

Cataloging your usage

After abandoning “Don’t waste your time,” I still needed a receptacle for the ongoing churn of real time, actual human assessment of the tools of our digital trade.

I’m an unofficial tester of all things related to aortic writings of a familiar lean. I’ve tried most interfaces and delved into a multitude of platforms. I stopped short of learning how to code (for dummies, et al) because I am too old.

The notion that I would fill up that brain storage space with a language designed to communicate with a machine that is supposed to evolve with me in the time space continuum just isn’t as interesting as discovering the one hundred she eleven languages officially considered “lost” since only one speaker of its native tongue remains.

Rastro philio pustrocity

Rastrophiliopustrocity was hard to come by these days, but she prevailed.

These dialects of our tribal languages are inextricably woven into the human (auto corrects to kung-fu, btw🤔) ability to commiserate, collaborate, communicate and concentrate on the meaning of words between like-minded folk.

Those spoken and written lexicons adapted with us over time.

Mutter see

Lena L. Leon

Tuko pamoja.

Together pajamas.


So then, what could’ve been the very first word to ever be spoken?

I have three theories.

Cuidado! a warning to your child that the wooly mammoth behind them is a threat to humankind’s existence.

I love you. The word love needed to be made one day.

God.

Either in caveman prayer or attached as namesake for that particularly desperate invocation, of mythological proportions, why have you forsaken me which must be addressed to some “one.”

We needed an anchor, preferably guttural, perhaps elliptic, but definitely a one syllable word for that guy.

We had to assign forever a gutwrenching association to some supposed creator (would the word for God be different had we known we were worshipping atoms as Adam?).

The poet never knows.

Battle cry


For the record

June 27, Two-thousand nineteen

Review of “mailbuzzr”

Graph and Stat

The possibility for greatness exists: fast, ability to maintain semblance of control over mailbox folders, loads ginormous amounts of unread emails without crashing like other apps. But no snooze option? Can’t customize the swipe actions? All I want is a better version of mailstrom where I can delete multiple emails sent by the same robot and actually check emails I want to respond to (mailstrom aka chuck in mobile platform – talk about weird branding) is good for mass deletion that’s it. So I tried buzzr for a second time since their app popped up as the bee’s knees. All I can say about it is the aesthetic is working for me, it loads fast and the notification sounds are rad. Other than that, there is nothing to set it apart from spark or Edison’s email (which has some terrific features but crashes too much) app which has added features to save you money based on your e-commerce records (without being cumbersome).

No ability to add email addresses beyond outlook or Gmail is limiting as well since I still maintain an old yahoo account due to the  personal and professional accounts associated with it. Not being able to do that means mailbuzzr cannot be the sole email app needed to manage an inbox  behemoth.

TV I.V.

she strained to listen

or was it

simply

to

hear

An amalgamation of loss

HERE, we found nothing

The player sits ugly

Waiting

the ship comes in

Lady Magdalene

Cartoon imposters

Hold sway

The amount of coin changing hands

with open air moniker abides as

He teetered above

before landing

at her feet.

The marketplace part 1 (to be continued)

Part 2: The quadrants

Wrangler and Peregrine

her otak

Just like her hero Roland in the gunslinger protected her

with vision

She rode the mare Misty out to the point, Chincoteague Island was in the distance.

Part 2: the heroine’s journey

Part 3: Glassell Park where Alayna sits in a tree overhead.

Watching her human spirit reside.

THE IDLE WIND

Don’t go walking slow

man on fire

The Devil’s onto you

Fire man

You’ll get on that talk show

Two hundred million guns are loaded


The sky is blue and so is the sea
What is the color, when black is burned?
What is the color?

Smoke signals don’t look back & Satan’s got your back

ponder perpetual motion

we’ll meet

by the red tree

All I know is

the one I love

is gone

to Zeus

As Hera

Forges

what’s you’re made of

In the basement

kiln of artist and

Demigod

Prometheus

What did he want with

Man, again, she asked

Oh you’re just a girl

That was said

a daily running tally

Kept by all the schizophrenics

she’d ever fled

fed

or acknowledged

YOU ARE INVISIBLE

when you are homeless, persecuted, systematically suppressed- no voice or

words mislead

like the horse

trying to make

him drink

He won’t

He the has not

You the wannabe

Me aha is here

I have an elevator pitch for St. Peter

the existence of

whom

can be called into question

corroborated

but not quite Congo gutted

Contiguous

Configured for this dimension

GTFO!
Olive Oiler

my baby left me, never said goodbye