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Brian T Baker Sep 2015
Default mode is quiet
Thoughtful. Often
mistsken for aloof.

But I’ve seen glimpses,
Crackle campfire flames,
wisdom behind frames.

Old soul remembering
Everything today forgot.

Intermittent expressions of
Vitality, torture, and love.

And today as she rests
I send a few texts
Fanning fiery memories.

I know she smiles when she reads
These casual truths: pretty ****,
Show-stopping smile and eyes.

As time goes by,
Timing remains awry
But she’ll always
Reside in my mind.
Portland, OR @ MoMo's for Happy Hour.  Well, actually this poem started at home, took a trip to the Apple store, then resolve itself over Miller High Life and my inconveniently placed charger.
Brian T Baker Sep 2015
Made my morning
much much easier

Doing everything that
I was told to never do.

Wake up with wine
A glass at a time
And at least three
Puffs of Cuckoo Chi.

Before that I **** myself.
Or, with luck, a PYT,
Who promises me
She’s on the pill.  

And if not, Oh
Well, I’m sure “Zanir”
wasn’t her government name.

It took close to twenty-three years
To shake off the agony of daytime.
There was no place for me in the
Systematic sunlight. Or, at least,
Not one that I could see.  But now

I’ve got a bottle, ½ full of optimistic
Alcoholism. I manage the condition
With a bit of cinnamon, spiced into
Steel cut oats and W.A. Elderberries.

Admitting what you don’t understand
While trusting that you know yourself
Is the last, if not only, human freedom.

Social expectation &
Psychic ambiguation.

Don’t take refuge in the familiar
Without first hugging your weird.

Comfort traps aren’t new,
Just the latest edition in:
That’s How They Get You.
Seattle, WA.  Episode One in an ongoing series. Also, it's 'nice' to be a morning person.
Brian T Baker Sep 2015
Not an entirely reliable structure
No years of cultivated security
But I can tuck my life neatly inside
Almost any opportunity.

Waited for years.
I made my move
Two backpacks
And one suitcase

Surreal is all
I’ve felt so far
Aside from lost
In love and why.

Ask yourself a question
Without immediately
Volunteering the answer.

If you know enough to ask
Then you should know
That you don’t really know.
Seattle, WA.  It's about time I stay honest and unsure of myself.
Brian T Baker Sep 2015
Remember when instincts were all that we had?
We successfully navigated danger on the daily.
Now it’s conditioned perception and status quo,
Pushing us further from —

— all-natural understanding.
A key unlocking
basic gifts. Given
without a care.

We are born with all we need
To feel, know, and learn + explore
But with cognition and expectation
We betray what we know. We accept
Designer culture and stigmatic classes.

I don’t want to believe
In anything but myself

Because I know I’m here
But I can’t say for sure
About anything else.
Wrote in a bar in Seattle, WA. Been a while since I "published" a poem longer than four lines.
Brian T Baker Mar 2014
Mistakes.   Mistakes.   Mistakes...
... and learning to not make them.

Life is a series of decisions
& correct calls are the key to
your well being and happiness.
Hmm, surprisingly I have no notes to go along with this fun poem. Oh, wait, oops.
Brian T Baker Nov 2013
I think
I've forgotten
What pleasure is.

Like the other day
I thought
"I should act
like a child today.
Child Brian had
much more joy
and fun-love."

But then I realized
I couldn't be
Child Brian, anymore,
Because I didn't have
any toys to play with.

Just the toys of today
My laptop -- for voyeurism and empty dreaming
Results unqualified and
Pictures painting pain.

My bottles and pipes -- for inflating my emptiness
A temporary filling feeling
That fleets and leaves me.

Waking up the next day
And wondering when
Why? What the hell does today mean?

But, pleasure, from the things I love
Is pretty much lost on me,
When I've stumbled upon the old cliche
"I've lost interest in the things that once brought me joy."

Maybe it's a lack of credit where "credits" due
Or maybe it's no longer have "friends" to run to
Or, could it be, because I'm actually attempting
Responsibility, that then bleeds me of anything.

The former coping mechanisms that once empowered me.

****.  Me.

This poem is no good
And my word is dirt
I've submitted to sadness
And laid with hurt.

Every old strategy has expired
And I'm forced to think twice
Do I fight through and try to
go with my new way, or
continue on in these cycles
of suffering and temporary euphoria?

****.  It.

It matters not
Because the one
purpose of this was
My reason to swear:

Today is the last day I wake up and accept my depression

… so there.
Easily the worst poem I've ever written -- but, that's OK.  This poem was written for me and no one else... and it won't affect you, in any way; unless I can actually stop being so sad.
Brian T Baker May 2013
Perception, when applied to others,
(e.g., why did they do that? what were they thinking?
This must be there intention / motivation / reasoning)
will usually be flawed... And is always uncertain.


Perception, when applied to the self,
(e.g., how am I framing this? where is my awareness?
This moment only exists this way because I choose to view it as such)
is a compass... And a lens for finding certainty.
Written after a conversation with my friend Jeffrey; the greatest podcast we never recorded... written on the evening of my last night in Portland / living with friends / as a "bachelor."
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