I have ever felt alone.
Marooned on a rock,
Surrounded by dead stock
Absent of mind or independent thought.
Idiocy is idealistic, ignorance bliss,
I envy this in them.
The burden of intellect is straining on the mind and once knowledge is gained escape, hard to find.

Walking thin lines between the mundane and mad,
A life drained of meaning,by the hand of definition.
Cornered by the finality of decisions I never made.
Alone.
Afraid.
Living in a time, after all has been said and all is being said.
After foundations laid and built up
into city states.
Now I’ll get to stand on its grave and watch as what makes us individual fades.
We’ve become slaves to lit pathways and the printed words on the back of meals that say
PUT ME IN THE MICROWAVE!
For one and a half minutes.
Then stir.
Going in circles with my spoon feeling a discontent bafoon because my life comes pre-prepared, easy to serve and consume.
These presumptions leave us no room, our creativity entombed.
But maybe one day when the worlds not so broke it will be exhumed.
I write to them from the world we broke.
She ran on empty
far too long
She kneeled
At the alter of creativity
And began to write
rob kistner Aug 3
_

I sit here
2:30 AM
running on little but adrenaline
facing down an alarm
that will summon my full attention
at 6:30 AM

it will ask of me
are you up to it
ole man
can you rise one more day
this day
to meet those
who have come to see your particular genius
your odd gift of assembly
of texture on texture
of enticing surface
your riot dance of color

can you dazzel them one more day
this day
can you spark their creative fire
to stir their awe
to make them covet
to part with coin
for a promise of mystery
of discovery
in hunger for possession
of that which is denied rhem
save through you

do they still desire your creations
will they see your new vision
will it translate
will they be taken
struck with the need
to be the one and only
to call this "mine"

will it speak to them
lift them
make them dream
carry them above the ordinary
to a place that's splendid
the atmos of the art gods
will they play there and be pleased

will it resonate their soul
deliver them
to the garden of the aware
that place where others
will know unequivocally
that this person is hip
unique
attuned to the extraordinary
recognizes something that is vibrating on the next plane
the place they want to be
to be seen
the place where they want to be acknowledged
as one in tune
to the next wave breaking

the next sumpin' sumpin'
that will
any minute
be trending
that will mark their decision to covet
as informed
inspired

ready ole man
ready to be captain of this perception ship

it is in port
anchored
stocked with your dreams
your visions
your inspiration
your creations

your art is smouldering
in the Anacortes morning sun
poised in a white nylon cubicle
awaiting the special
the aware
those who see through your artist's eye
to discover the wonders
wrapped in your cylinders of serenity
they gather at 10:00 AM

in this moment
you sit wondering
are you once again ready
has your muse been bold
have you mined the gems of creative genius
will they sparkle this year
in the waiting eyes
at your tent
anticipating your opening
as this new art show begins

are you ready ole man
as you've been so many times before
as you were when the Marshalls
were stacked high
loaded to slay the beast of ordinary
to lay claim to the treasure of Apollo
to make the people dance
soar on the rhythm and riffs
far above the mind-numbing routine

this day
these people
seek deliverance from the mundane
to share the magic
that was shown you
while communing with the higher gods of art

it's now 3:00 AM ole man
they're gonna wanna be amazed
bedazzled
blown away

seven hours 'til show time
are you ready
ole man
for one more day
one more show

pull yourself together ole man
your muse is watching
wondering if you still
"Got It"
there's some evidence that you do

this is it ole man
art show day
time to be loved
to have your genius recognized
or have your shit called

your beautiful marvels are out for all to see
are you ready ole man

_


rob kistner © 2018
This is the finished, edited write of a stream-of-consciouness piece I started in the wee hours of last Friday, pondering the opening of another art show at which my wife and I were exhibiting.
Regrettably, in my weariness, I had released it to the public domain, instead of saving it to draft, as I'd intended.
Thank you to all who suffered through, and still supported the unedited version - snd my sincere apologies.
Here now is the edited and spell-checked version. I hope it meets favor.
Isla Aug 6
I can't write
I actually physically can't
OK
OK how about, something with flowers
Not like that's been done 1000000000 times
I swear to god anymore similes and I will

punch

my

own

esophagus

This is terrible
OK ummm
Fish tanks?
Fish tanks aren't all that poetic
I can't think of anything
I think I'm dried up
Like an empty...
Fish tank
Dammit
Wait a minute
What if I just write something about
Not knowing what to write
That would be easy
It also explains why this sucks
Dammit
The creativity well has run dry friends

*punches self in esophagus for putting this on my page*
martha Aug 2
When you forget how to do the things you know you love doing
It can feel like the ability that used to come so naturally
Has already soaked into the misshapen stain of nothingness you blame yourself for spilling

It’s contents have already slipped between the floorboards
And escaped from the cracks in your skin before you got a chance to check when they’d be coming back

I haven’t been writing recently
I haven’t been able to
I don’t know why

I don’t know why my right hand can’t find the will to cradle a pen the way it did before
Like my fingers have forgotten their favourite position to make love to lined paper in

A broken down marriage forcing itself to carry on collapsing
Wheels wasting away spoke by spoke with every rotation
Until there is nothing left to support it’s tired turning
Until it falls on it’s side
Disintegrates
And becomes one with the earth it used to roam so proudly

Maybe it’s just rusty
Growing weaker with age
Desperate for an oiling of inspiration
Provoked by the detonation of something bigger than it’s brittle body
Something so furious
so deafening
that the dots that hang on the insides of closed eyes never stop flashing
Even when the world violates fortresses of eyelashes
and pupils learn to dilate on demand

Maybe I’m missing something
Something already there
As plain as the nose on my face
Just north of cupids bow and south of sights for sore eyes

And yet
It still refuses to tell me where
or how to trace the invisibility of a saving grace that mockery comes second nature to

Maybe it’s not meant for me
But then please explain the fragility of such a thing
That threaded itself so delicately into the stitching of my naive and barren soul the first time I made my mouth move
to speak words it only ever spoke in silence

Explain the burning in my belly
Whose smoke rises into my chest with every late night
stage fright
bedroom performance delivered to absent guests whose applause is collected
Kept secret beneath my pillows
Only to emerge in the shapes of dreams
Evaporating with every 6am sunrise that shines through my window

I’ve never been a morning person
Tiredness has turned into a trait rather than a side effect

I find myself falling asleep on buses in the hope that when I wake up I will be somewhere I don’t recognise but always intended to visit
A place littered with billboards advertising what my purpose in life was always meant to be
And a phone number beneath where first come first served gets it for free

Early bird gets the worm
And now my wings only work in the dark
Ever since contracting the corrosive infection that spread all the way to the edges of the veins until it began to bleed but never had the courage to finish the job

Guilt has set so many seeds in my stomach
That a dynasty of doubts has grown it’s own garden
and is using my bones as a trellis
Contradictions can’t capture the cause of a catastrophe
But give the clouds enough time to settle and the dust might tell you why

It’s not that nothing was meant for me
I just don’t think I’m destined for anything
bigger than my body

The one I inhabit daily
On a part-time
rent-free basis

Where autopilot is automatic

We're still waiting for someone else to fix the off switch
Is It okay to think for myself?
Is it okay to be who i want?
Is it okay to choose my own book of the shelf?
But i'm guessing that i can't
Because you've taught me how to think
Not for myself but for you
You've taught me who i am
Not me but you
You've told me creativity is good
But then showed me what i did wrong
You've told me to think for myself
Then gave me a topic to follow
You told me to think outside the box
Then gave me a rubric so hollow
I speak the language of God
I speak Alleluyah and Amen!
I speak a perfect spoken word,
The language of poets and gifted men.

I speak fluent Norwegian
The language of the Norsk.
I was born a Liberian.
That took time and hard work.

I speak sound French
The language of French Guinea.
I speak it whenever I pray in church,
God blessed me there as a refugee.

I speak the English Language,
The universal language of business.
Wall Street used it to do damage,
Damages that caused the financial crisis.

I speak the hustle language,
The one adopted by hustlers.
This language I have used to engage,
All my challenges and troubles.

I speak a special creative language
The one spoken by writers and poets.
This language is so unique,
That it has produced many laureates.


#IvanBrooksPoetry©
1/8/2018
This is a special day ,because I used two languages to write it..I used the creative language and English.
Eoj Senid Aug 1
Still Bitter

You made me a quitter,
Given upon myself,
Put my life on the shelf,
Preserved, or rotten?

Friends forgotten,
Dreams cut to a thousand pieces,
Anxiety increases,
Depression rains down,

A constant let down,
Isolated,
Frustrated,
You made me a quitter,
Still bitter,
Still bitter,
Forever;
Fucking bitter
Gale L Mccoy Jul 31
find me
in the corner of the local cafe
cling fast to sanctuary
aura of creativity
illusinary productivity
idealized possibility
i would rather bury myself
in it's walls forever
than leave
Poetry is like a tattoo
Stamped on me from birth.
Like a mysterious voodoo,
It's my charm on this earth.

Poetry is like a tattoo
Engraved on my DNA.
Like the diamonds of Mabutu,
It shines from p.m. to the a.m.

Poetry is like a tattoo
It will never be removed.
Like my love for fufu
Not until I'm disemboweled.

Poetry is like a tattoo
Like the Nile and Egypt,
It encompasses what we do
It's life's soundtrack and script.

Poetry is like a tattoo
It can now be lasered.
But in music, like a crescendo,
It can never be chiseled.

#IvanBrooksPoetry©
31/7/2018
Poetry is like a tattoo, I call it my voodoo.
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