Jinxed jesting jejune junior jobber...
just jabbering gibberish (A - J)
Again, another awkward ambitious
arduous attempt at alphabetically
arranging atrociously ambiguously
absolutely asinine avoidable alliteration.
Because...? Basically bonafide belching,
bobbing, bumbling, bohemian beastie boy,
bereft bummer, bleeds blasé blues, begetting
bloviated boilerplate bildungsroman,
boasting bougainvillea background.
Civil, clever clover chomping, cheap
chipper cool cutthroat clueless clodhopper,
chafed centenary, codifies communication
cryptically, challenging capable, certifiably
cheerful college coed.
Divine dapper daredevil, deft, destitute,
doddering, dorky dude, dummkopf Dagwood
descendent, dagnabbit, demands daring
dedicated doodling, dubious, dynamite,
deaf dwarf, diehard doppelganger, Doctor
Demento double, declaring depraved
daffy dis(pense)able dufus Donald Duck
derailed democracy devastatingly defunct.
Eccentric, edified English exile,
effervescent, elementary, echinoderm
eating egghead, Earthling, excretes,
etches, ejaculates, effortless exceptional
emphatic effluvium enraging eminent,
eschatologically entranced, elongated
elasmobranchii, emerald eyed Ebenezer,
effectively experiments, emulates epochal
eczema epidemic, elevating, escalating,
exaggerating enmity, enduring exhausting
emphysema.
Freed fentanyl fueled, fickle figurative
flippant fiddler, fiendishly filmy, fishy,
fluke, flamboyantly frivolous, fictitious,
felonious, fallacious, fabulously fatalistic,
flabbergasted, fettered, flustered, facile,
faceless, feckless, financially forked,
foregone, forlorn futile fulsome, freckled
feverish, foo fighting, faulty, freezing,
fleeting famously failing forecaster, flubs
"FAKE" fundamental fibber fiat, fabricating
fiery fissile fractured fios faculties.
Gamesomeness goads gawky, gingerly,
goofily graceful, grandiloquent gent, gallant,
genteel, geico, guppy gecko, gabbling gaffes,
gagging, gamboling, gestating, gesticulating,
garlic, gnashing, gobbling, gyrating,
gruesomely grinning, grappling, gnomadic
giggly, grubby, gastrointestinally grumpy
gewgaw gazing gesticulating guy,
geographically generically germane,
gungho, grave gremlin, grumbling, guiding,
guaranteeing, guerilla gripped gatling guns
ginning gumpshun.
Hello! Herewith halfway harmless hazmat,
haphazard haggard, hectored, hastily,
hurriedly, harriedly hammered, handsomely
hackneyed, heathen, hellbent hillbilly, hirsute,
hidden hippie, huffy humanoid, hexed, heady,
Hellenistic, holistic, hermetic, hedonistic
heterosexual Homo sapiens historical heirloom,
homeless, hopeful, holy, hee haw heretical hobo.
Indefatigable, iconographic, iconic, idealistic,
idyllic, inimitable, idiosyncratic, ineffable,
irreverently issuing idiotic, indifferent, inert,
ineffectual, ingeniously iniquitous, immaterial,
insignificant, indubitable, inexplicable, ignoble
itches, ineffectually illustriously illuminating
immovable infused ichthyosaurus implanted
inside igneous intrusions immensely
imperturbable improbable.
Jovial jabbering jinxed January jokester
just jimmying jabberwocky
justifying jangling jarring juvenile jibberish
jubilantly jousting jittering
jazzy jawbreaking jumble
justifying, jostling, Jesus;
junior jowly janissary joyful Jekyll
joined jumbo Jewess jolly Jane;
jammed jello junket jiggled
jeopardized jingled jugs.
Closed.
A burning passion, an unwavering desire for his attention, a small spark that blew up into an engulfing flame that would later consume every bit of the girl I once was. From the start of the story, I already knew we couldn't be friend. Despite knowing how the story ends, I feigned ignorance; so did he because lying to each other was better than to admit we were both dying. I still look longingly at the girl who was brave enough to be straightforward with her feelings. I don't remember the last time I saw her. Even as the flame settles, I can't help what wonder what were we? Less than strangers because we talked everyday, during school, in the morning before school, in the afternoon when you were on the bus, late up until the night settle; up until you left without a trace, no note left in my hands, nothing. Some could say acquaintances, but I couldn't talk to you face to face; and I already knew he wouldn't. Not friends either, since friends are the people you hang on close to, the people you share your biggest secrets with, and the people you tell everything to. This "whatever" as I refer to it was short, but the time we spent together felt long. We talked everyday, I told him everything, and then it ended. I just want to let this story die; to burn and bring back the girl I once was. I want her back. I want her back more than I want him back. Our path got lost among the looming trees, grass fighting amongst the wind, and the daffodils weeping their hearts out as I did too when you left. Belonging amongst your memories never suited the whimsical life I live. Walking down the smooth, inanimate path you trailed was never the life I wanted. When he stole the girl I was, locking her up in a bird cage, forever meant to sit idly waiting, was when I forgot what I wanted aside from him. I used to keep count of the days of no contact, I've forgotten now. But I think it's better for this "whatever" to be over than for me to be string along a rope I thought was fate. Whispers in my heart beg for me to incinerate this thing, to let it die; I think it's time I stop rereading the pages of a half sewed together book. All he's become is somebody that I used to know, I'm sick of waiting for his love. I am just going to lay this story in the place it belonged; into the fire of the past, to burn, giving birth to the new verison of me. Have you seen her?
Tru
The sun rises over Baltimore, and I feel like a sanctimonious prick for writing that line. I've been up all night, to no good. Staying in a room for the night I surely cannot afford due to the shit head landlord of the previous room I had rented being a abhorrent bitch.
That shit be the title of my book. I think, at least. I think a lot of things, and most of them end me up in situations like these.
Sometimes they take me down the path of fortune and success but save for a few moments in my life - maybe more than a few but less than many. Many of the thoughts that pass through my head are of little value at all. I tell myself that, at least.
I tell myself a lot of things that scare me into seeking escapist oblivion like alert awareness of my surroundings. A brightening and tweaking of my perception through women, through drugs and alcohol, through adrenaline or war.
Apparently the fear I feel when I think the doomsday scenario possibilities up in my head that become more realistic every day are the only ones I give value to, therefore leading to the inching further of my own destruction.
They're all one and the same, then again, many of the thoughts that pass through my head are of little value at all. Things that I tell myself are like a shipwrecked man talking to a effigy of his best friend.
Maybe that's true for all of us, but seemingly not all of us. Since the suited men that walk and drive and take the train down the side walk, street, and railways around here always seem to be put together.
I used to be one of them, but never for very long. I've been one in spurts and binges of functionality that always lead me back to where I am right now.
Winning the genetic lottery means exactly jack shit if you can't make use of in life. Not with the self destructive streak that cuts like a bowie knife on a hot day through a stick of butter into everything you try to accomplish, god forbid you accomplish it.
I sometimes really can't believe anyone would fictionalize and entertain with the lifestyle that fucks up everything in mine. The romanticized warrior alcoholic poet who completely tornadoes and nukes everything in his life including the food he eats and the women he fucks.
I had cut off my hair to get back to my high and fucked days of yesteryear. Mistake. Of course. Oh well. Most of the space on my white board has run out, better get a chalk board to fit this one in because god knows the shit is running into the hundreds between women, wars, and wickedness.
Burn Ban
In this land, there are endless forests. When colonisers came, they thought "Wow, what a beautiful natural state! Full of resources and useful," and over time that evolved from conservatin to preservation, from "Protect nature for future generations!" to "We must preserve it for it's inherent value!"
But what they failed to recognize is that the forests of Appalachia, the forests of California, of Ottawa, of Boreal design... none of them are just *like* that. It's by design. The people who have been here forever took care of them in the same way they always have:
They burned. Burning is important. Without intentional burning, wildfires start and do far more destruction.
Burning is setting the ground for new growth. It's clearing away the deadfall and risky buildup of broken limbs. It's allowing things to become fertilizer for a bright future. And you, Reader, may be ready to burn the years spent in relationships that do not serve you, but I guarantee you, you will thank yourself for it. You'll thank yourself for learning what you did, and for setting fire to it now, watching the flames eat away at that which must be cleared in order for you to succeed and grow. Because without your courage to do it, that fire would've started anyway. And instead of burning two or three or five or ten years, it would have devastated far, far more of your life.
So burn away, dear Reader. Set fire to the past. It's not wasted, only fuel. Make way for a stronger internal ecosystem, one that has cleared the hazards and knows the risks and stands strong, with fertile land for future growth; you are not a tree, my dear. You're a whole damn forest. Burn down the years, and remember that they are not time wasted. That Time is simply the tool to finding something better.
I know that our efforts all come to nothing. Analyze life, tear its trappings off, lay it bare with thought, with logic, with philosophy, and its emptiness is revealed as a bottomless pit; its nothingness frankly confesses to nothingness, and Despair comes to perch in the soulI know the end of us all is nothing, I know that at the end of Time, the reward of our toil will be nothing — and again nothing. I know that all our handiwork and all our ideas will be destroyed. I know that not even ash will be left from the fires that consume us. I know that our ideals, even those we achieve, will vanish in the eternal darkness of oblivion and final non-being. There is no hope, none, in my heart. I know, No promise, none, can I make to myself and to others. No recompense can I expect for my labors. No fruit will be born of my thoughts. I know the time — eternal seducer of all men, eternal cause of all effects — offers me nothing but the blank prospect of annihilation. So, my dignity is broken and weak, in recognition of my impending defeat.
The man who is alone, who stands on his own feet, who is stripped bare, who asks for nothing and wants nothing, who has reached the apex of disinterestedness not through blind renunciation but through excess of clear vision, turns to the world which stretches out before him as a burned prairie, as a devastated city — a world in which no churches, asylums, refuges, ideals, are left — and says: «Though you promise me nothing I am still with you, I am still an atom of your energies, my work is part of your work; I am your companion and your mirror as you march on your merciless way. But I owe nothing to any one. I would be responsible to freedom alone.
Forged Ideals
I learned to hate the idea of being a woman.
Our only purpose seemed to be to serve, to submit, to be silent and suffer.
I watched as my mother cried and begged church after church for forgiveness for a crime she had no choice in commiting.
Knowing her story, her suffering,
intimately by age 9,
I had wept with her and could not fathom the cruelty and audacity of all of those pious, holy hypocrites to find joy in her desperate pleas.
I learned that I was not as good as my brothers, I was weaker, more emotional, better suited for cooking and cleaning and laundry than sports or video games or cars.
I learned that my voice should never be heard when there is a man present, that if a man chooses to give you attention, you should always be polite and sweet and thankful.
I learned that I would never be smart enough to understand the things in a man’s world.
I grew up with the notion that women like my mother and I are not pretty enough, we should be grateful for any man’s attention, because we have brown hair, brown eyes, baby bearing bodies and deep sadness that no one could ever deal with.
I had more body hair than most boys in my 5th grade class, I was too short, my hair was never blonde, my eyes weren’t blue, my stomach never once flat enough despite years of not eating and vomiting constantly- all of this kept as a tally of my exact degree of worth, or lack thereof, in the back of my brain.
I learned that I looked so similar to my mother through any eyes but her own.
She could only look at me and see her past regrets, now I look at me and I see a nauseating blur of two people that broke and abandoned me.
And so I burned the idea that I could ever be a woman to the ground.
I longed to be anything *but* a woman, hoping that would be enough for my father to care, to rewrite my past through a new lens, give me new worth, allow me to enjoy the things that he did even though I was not born with the same body as my brothers, but it turns out I will never be a man either.
There is nothing left that feels like mine except the in between shades of bluish gray.
The absent, gaping void settled betwixt here and there.
I do not belong to either world and I never will.
But I will forge my own place for my younger self to find safety and sanctuary in- even walking through the flames of the hell I’ve been damned to.
I am a phoenix.
Even if it takes lifetimes to rise from the ashes of generational grief.
wandering
As I wander, I ponder endlessly. Pondering what things could be. Thinking of my future, maybe even my past. Thinking of all the things that will never last. But upon these thoughts, the way I see, those things just were not meant for me. There is a reason for everything, and for everything there is a way. Sometimes, for a moment, you've just gotta stay. Life has it's way of taking you where you need to go, Maybe you don't know where, but surely life does. What if life doesn't know? Well I guess you'll have to wait for it to show. As you wander, as you ponder, the things that could've been, think about the things that could be.
The clock
I sit at my desk, watching the time. Watching the clock, oh that wretched clock. Time feels slow as it goes past, minutes fade into hours, hours into days. Soon it all becomes a blur, the sound of the ticking engrained in my memory like a sour taste on my tongue. As I sit I wonder, is this really how life goes? is this how it all will end? days long gone, fading into the background of the gray scenery. As time passes with each tick of that wretched clock, I grow older. I grow weaker. But time must pass, we all must age, theres no denying the change of age. But in the scene of storm clouds and people growing more miserable with each passing day, there is a light. A light that leads you on to keep trying. To keep going. It urges us to follow it's winding path into tomorrow. But as the light fades into the darkness, we continue the same cycle. The cycle of life, The cycle that goes on and on until time itself is no more. When there are no more ticks, of that wretched clock.
Mine gerund farming, tilling, and harvesting illogical weltanschauung
Twas accursed destiny
since birth (maybe coded in
deoxyribonucleic acid
since time immemorial) alas and alack
nascent emasculation abominable barrack
emergent deus ex machina,
one common Joe biden his time
for no particular
rhyme nor reason
revisiting mine days of yore,
when protectiveness courtesy
older sibling come
from behind ruthless counterattack.
All equivocation aside,
she/her thirteen plus months
and twelve days
constituted chronological senior gap
eldest sister struck like diamondback
against bullies who targeted me
as a poor defenseless “scape goat”
surrogate "mother" role
assumed tubby exact
protectorate viz pseudo fullback
against cruel foo fighting beastie boys
hurling black barbs
firing verbal slings and arrows.
Escapist exploits to cope
being brutalized, and traumatized
synonymous when Brian Williams,
(not the newscaster,
but neighborhood school chum,
who shared same namesake)
we imagined ourselves
courageous dauntless explorers
while toying with his beebee gun.
Mein kampf one after another
against relentless barrage of flak
comeuppance effected giveback
pummeling spongiform mine
now sixty plus shades gray matter
fisticuffs sister didst highjack
proxy mated mothering
kept corporeal essence intact
jilting nefarious nemesis aligned
jumpstarting, maligning, and stalking.
This fee-fi-fo-fum
bling ordinary bean sized Jack
err runt (arrant) cowardly
(fee lion) dorky and nerdy lad
owning nada knick knack
paddy whack give my dog a bone
a fide scaredy cat,
he/him an aging baby boomer
older married chap doth adumbrate
satisfactory accomplishments lack
king, where crazy
quilt aimless wandering
described purposeless multitrack
thus, sympathetic, and empathetic
to hue men/women nonblack
or decimated aborigines
once populating Australian outback
existential nihilism would,
undergirding hypothetical
unwritten paperback
with little need to prevaricate,
nor appear as quack
pot, one measly Homo sapiens,
who accrued millennial
palimpsest gestalt zeitgeist
where, punctured, and zapped
disequilibrium created
psyche dust rack
asper protean (in utero)
multitudinous setback
soundlessly resonating
with concussive thwack
as this rickety ship of state
(never confused as fêted junket)
unwanted emotional ballast to unpack
asseveration, asper assiduously
preferably welcoming
dry suction no vac
jarring this pawn (knight wannabe
in his bishop rick) torrid
me psychological wrack
king within (castle keep)
complex edifice shackled
in dungeon with repast constituting
present day long winded conversations,
where she volubly talk yakety yak.
Campfire Condolences
I let the soot stain my fingertips ashen grey, pinching the corner of a splintered log as I toss it further into the metal pit.
I imagine how tired the flames must be. Most refer to a fire as raging, as angry as a hellhound biting at the confines we try haplessly to keep it within.
But would a fire not burn so bright, not burn so fiercely that it wishes to rest? Because as the flames turns to ash, the wood burnt something terrible there squats it's assailant, blowing on its ruin and trying to catch carcass to cardboard.
I try to clean up its disarray with my own, and it feels as though helping a comrade to its feet around the shrapnel of stainless steel.
I tend to this fire as though its a tangible peace of me, tend it solely until it shows sign of exhaustion, and smile when it lets out a relieved sigh as I douse it before bed. Watching it twirl and dance above the sky top of the tent, feeling just the bit lighter for it all.