Long Obsessively Poems
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The Peterson Directed Handwriting System...
Tis beyond the depth and scope
of this electronic post,
and author, what triggers deliverance
housing bounty full memory absorbance,
yet no matter how many
heat sinks plumb cognizance,
most ordinary happenstance
often dredge up old nettlesome
rusty mettlesome names
of teachers forbearance
nearly half century ago
recalled in a flash,
and helped birth this poetic instance
break open literary
piece de resistance,
yet I will make
no subsequent reference
albeit once, about Peterson Handwriting
non cursively typed poem
filled with nonsensical abundance
dashed off viz seat
of my squarepants
typed, via strong arm lance
meant tubby considered pure entertainment,
so...,this rhyme merely hints
at cerebral imbalance
as minor rave and rants,
culled from convenient
20/20 hindsight stance,
while this quiet as bobbing sponge
minutely straddled across
space time continuum expanse,
and (analogously, invisibly,
plus quixotically perched circumstance
amidst wide webbed worldly metaphysical,
intellectual, and existential kants),
yet unable to disguise me
porous (poor ass) student advance
barely getting promoted,
cuz sigh re: Seine ed lee
imaged myself prince charming
to frolic and prance,
and dreamt about being in France,
when teacher called on me,
I immediately (whistled like
a little teapot) appearance,
whereby steam issued
out chrome dome
(scanned hull – i.e. numb
skull) affixed on
short and stout genetic grants,
which noggin always
(automatically) looked askance,
while me got alphabetically seated
from grades three to six
(mrs wells, mister stout,
missus shaner, and
miss rinderle respectively)
with absolute zero exuberance
(at Henry Kline
Boyer Elementary School,
I just recalled aforementioned
randomly accessed memory by chance
casually rifling thru
memory bank, freelance
sing, while pissing
away time performing,
"I gotta urinate dance,"
thus rendering painstaking years
perfecting penmanship style
(reference poem title)
executed with Liberace flamboyance,
whereat yours truly obsessively and
compulsively excelled at
duplicating signature compliance
plus crossing T's and
dotting I's with rapacious
perfectly ruled slants.
When I read
that we are all sculpted
upon his image
the first imprint appeared in front of my cognition
is that one of the parts sliding down the conveyor belt
just like at Fiat's
little pieces dropping in paper boxes
warily inspected
obsessively revised
senselessly omitted
from with white gloves wrapped hands
among those nude paper covers
suddenly your path doesn't seem so mysterious anymore
it's circular
and there we are
circularly crossing over your first creatures hands
with their perfectly white gloves
they were the first one
they should have been left the first one
but you just had that need to prolong the game
and implement some new rules
expecting that products will behave
according to the implemented protocols
and your workers will hold their hands white
then
an apple occurred
some overdriven laborer
dropped it from his lunch box
onto that moving rubber platform
and everything went wrong
one hands turned black
other white hands in desire to maintain themselves clear
withdrawn from that rubber
leaving parts unsupervised
and boxes exposed to putrefaction
due to a single touch
some good parts are falling before they even reached the boxes
other good ones became damaged by the fall
or are dropped in incorrect packaging
some malfactured one's reach the boxes
and are sent side by side with good ones
everyone knows
what happens when mildewed wall leans on the dry one
knowing that our price is devaluing
according to the decay stage
you keep amusing yourself
deliberately pushing from time to time
that wrong button
just to remind us
how we are
easily corrupted goods
Memories tell lies,
“Behind enemy lines” is getting caught in my mind.
But “two twos” overslept,
Behind glossed over eyes the secrets are kept.
So memories tell lies,
That you already know.
My youth kept inside hides,
That’s something I just couldn’t let go.
That self supremacy just wouldn’t die,
Why,
Oh why shouldn’t I just forget my woes?
Over obsessively weighing cons against pros,
The case only gets closed whenever the answers are known.
Heart beats keep pace,
Decaying on the longer blood flows.
Sour and tart,
Life’s an acquired taste,
Some don’t mind waiting as the cancer just grows.
But hearts need to race,
Down roads with no clue wherever it goes.
I’m chasing being alive,
I just know that I’m close.
I’m chasing down my life,
To see the “Ro” I miss most.
Memories tell lies,
Sincerely yours,
One of the guys.
Come, Gather close, look over my shoulder, grab a seat near to view my insecurities.
And, though, I know it is dark and black, still gaze to view my past of impurities.
A lifetime of brewing with worry, building up a reasonless fury, a hell from wence forth that i would never show glory.
The endless nights, dreading. As I recklessly shed mindless tears of worry, for I feared that the life I desired, shamefully i was undeserving.
I was weeding out my blue skies, feeding lies into my life with my blurried eyes, denying my dismay, finding my way throughout the dense fog, likening myself as a worthy prize.
All the years of lazing around, keeping my gears locked down, leaving my conveyor belts crumbled and unprofound.
Obsessively chewing greasy meals for my food, and indulging in illicit acts to keep from slipping into a mood.
Just four words (don't let me die)
Praying solely in the hopes that my soul won't blaze under the skies
Holding on to worldly items ever so closely, thoughts of missing them wholly, now im clutching this soul because it is the only,
The one true and only
The only thing that matters
"I release these feelings of un-heavenly beings of sin.
For these are feelings i no longer wish to rue upon within.
I halt my cursed spewing and proceed with what I'm doing.
These angelic deeds are for a world that shows unproven."
("Outside Looking In Merit Badge", 2011, original oil)
Building a Dream
My whole life I have been observing myself
Steadily, obsessively telling a story,
Sure, throughout the day, from to time, I lose myself
In work and play and focus on others
But inevitably the focus returns to me
And all those other moments get added to my story.
This is an obsession that never rests
As the watchfulness that never sleeps
Continues to gaze wherever, in, out, around
While my program runs on top
Piecing it all together
Into a whole greater than the parts.
Now that I am old and the story is long and rich
I can see this life’s work, as natural as it is,
Has perhaps been misguided
Flawed by a fundamental compulsive program
Of being me
A dreamer never really free of the dream.
(7/29/24)
Word play, captures me, takes me hostage,
Keeps me enthralled, Entranced, fascinated
Intrigued as nothing else can today
Obsessively manipulated by this passion
I am hopelessly at her mercy. Giving up other things,
Rebuking people, Held in willing exile by word play
She wakes me up with a line in my head.
At two or three many mornings.
Keeps me alive, not fully in this world,
But rather in a linguistic realm, where I could escape
I smile, knowing my personalities and proclivities.
When I stop playing with these squiggles and dots
I will walk away, cold turkey, wiping my sandals off
Never to pick a pen or a pencil up again.
Will it be soon?
That's the beauty of it.
I never know
until that day.
He’s a great painter,
hands skilled in light and shadow,
canvas after canvas bending to his will.
Landscapes, faces, still lifes
he’s captured them all,
each stroke praised, each color admired.
But this painting,
this one refuses to bend.
He needs the crimson pomegranate,
a shade that dances between ripeness and fire,
but every mixture of oil and pigment
falls flat, dull, lifeless.
He experiments, obsessively,
hours into nights,
days folding into each other.
Nothing achieves the hue he dreams.
Nothing breathes.
Then, in a sudden, terrible clarity,
he understands:
his perfect crimson pomegranate
requires human blood.
A chill spreads through him.
The formula whispers its demand.
Will he let obsession claim him?
Will he paint the color at the cost of life?
The canvas waits, unjudging,
but the choice…
the choice is his alone.
If you don’t like intensity
Then you better listen to me
Go back to your playhouse, boy
And kindly just let me be.
I’m past the little sweet talk
And I’m past the flirting stage
If you’re unused to passion
Then don’t get caught in my cage
I love with insanity
That borders on obsession
Stop giving mixed signals
Or I’ll make this bold confession
I dream about you all the day
And you’re my fantasy at night
If you knew how I adore you
It’s sure to give you quite a fright
I’m no weakling in the love game
I can fight, destroy, and seize
Anyone who dares look at you
I will torture just as I please
You are what keeps my soul alive
Your smile sets my heart ablaze
When you give that knowing look
I can’t fight back desire’s craze
I’ll be at your beck and call
Fulfill each desire and whim
You’ll have food that’s made in heaven
I’ll fill your love cup to the brim
I want to lie down beside you
See you drift to dream land sweet
I’ll plant kisses on your lips
Till the morning sun you greet
I’m consumed by thoughts of you
And when you’re near I’m set on fire
My days are spent in wistful thought
You’re my only true desire.
I wish that you would want me
In the self-same frenzied way
That gives no chance for sleep at night
Nor restful peace during the day
So if this is all, just way too much
And you feel you might suffocate
Then let me give you freedom, child
I need a man to reciprocate!
Stepping on shuttered dreams
Feet bleeding wishes of travel
Disable soul mails postcards
To a corner called " Empty Apartment"
Still nature on the thirteenth floor
Mom's glasses left behind and a cup full of tears
A phone ringing obsessively
The door permanently unlocked…
Jetlag freezes childhood memories
Dirt squishes mortality between my toes
Ravens on cracked limbs distract me
A shovel full releases a white cloud
I jump on ready made steps in snow
Hungry children of the graves follow me
I stop, they stop, I feel, they feel - so lonely
Playing the game of “Orphaned Roulette”...
for Matt's Contest "Empty Apartment"
(“July 7 Hot and Blue”, 2024, original encaustic)
I like mowing the arboretum
Because it’s relaxing
And the reason for that
Is because it’s mindless.
There are other mindless activities
Such as walking on the beach,
Fishing under an open sky,
Or playing with pets and small children.
But mowing the arboretum for me
Is especially mind-less
Because it’s a randomly planted plot of land
Which means it can only be randomly mowed.
Only an acre, still it takes a couple of hours to mow,
And often I begin with dread, because
I have forgotten how good it feels
To let my mind wander into mindlessness.
In our hearts we know mindlessness is good for us,
And that’s because being obsessively mindful
Is the same as being a prisoner, or better yet a slave,
Within and to our own mind.
Mindfulness is well and good for a variety of tasks,
I certainly want my surgeon being mindful,
But it’s simply a means to an end, and that end,
The ultimate space of a free mind, is mind less.
(4/17/26)