#metacognition
Obviously
Most of your persona
Comes from
The way you listen
The remaining
The way you respond
And your infinite charm lies in
The way you understand
You're the soul of my ink
You are that muse I seek
Yet had never got enough
I pay homage to
The light in you
The depth in you
That breathe in you
Stay vibing
Apr 5
Apr 5, 2026 at 10:38 PM UTC
okay, so i’m sitting in this room, right?
what i see as january is showing up as last september, blurred, with chromatic aberration making candy coloured doubles of everything (so slightly out of sync)
but also, in just one stripe of magenta motion,
it’s
it’s
some time outside time that was actually a few years ago now
in one of the creamiest, heaviest, slowest moments that i know
of spring summer fall or winter
where you held me or i held you so that we couldn’t fit any closer together
and we sang hymns of deep, slow, long breaths
back and forth in safe & sleepy silence.
oh… every time this one replays, some secret (tender) spot in my rib cage aches in perfect vacuum.
why do the scenes change with such rapidity?
from even farther back, now
barreling in from stage-right: the coarse itchy imprint of cheap motel carpet on my bare knees & tops of feet.
that moment when my lovesick was fooled by your deathwish.
******* it.
i watch myself being swallowed by a giant blue whale of regret.
then
in a sparkling montage (soft focus, pink highlights), a carousel of slides starts ticking by: all the lust. the smell of hot dust and happy circuits.
snapshot after snapshot of insane, flaming, resonating lust.
expanding outwards in rainbow colours,
like hunger but hundreds times better. i could not escape it anywhere, and still cannot find any suitable refuge.
as sweet honey lures the fly,
your flesh did mine.
like bubblegum. like cotton candy. like cherry pie. oh, the way the syrup flowed between our…
-click-
i watch the dim darkness for the flash of the face
of the smudgy raccoon; my breath catching in my chest as i recognize
that look of a frantic scavenger. perpetually startled by this scarcity & the aching persistent lack of you forever, which brings with it a high pitched ringing doubt!
… what if i never love like that again?
Jan 8
Jan 8, 2026 at 2:01 AM UTC
Writing a poem is about locating self.
Every facet within what you’re about to create
blooms from your consciousness, your subconsciousness
your ego, your mind, your heart
But where are those elements planted?
Where are they rooted?
They are rooted within:
your ethnocentric illusions
your lived reality
your privilege, your pleasure, your pain
your abilities, your disabilities
your socioeconomic status: have and/or havenot
your fluency, your empathy, your sense of humour
your vices and your storytelling devices
Now we've got some roots, what are we going to grow?
Let’s begin by observing, using our senses
Maybe, let’s use our eyes
Consider, the reality of how we see and sense the world
Is different for each and every one of us
Everything is tempered by the lens we use
Which is informed through the roots of our synapses
Which empirically flow from the subjective ground
On which we stand
And what does this have to do with poetry?
What you describe in your poem,
Is an interpretation of what you see (and feel)
Interesting poetry comes when
there is exploring to do
It is a poet’s imperative to
Explore the edges
Out past the boundaries of the visual and audible spectrum
If we were fish poet’s
Would we write poetry about water?
I like to toy with my teenagers on occasion
So I asked my son the other day, what his worldview was?
And I have been enjoying the vacuous silence ever since
To be fair, I have been asking myself the same question for many years
And this might have been the inciting incident leading me to storytelling
As we began this journey together, it was stated that
Writing a poem is about locating self.
Can you describe your context?
Let me attempt to describe mine:
Here I am on the stage in this ocean of air
At the Owl Acoustic Lounge
On a Wednesday night in May
Popping air with rhythm, nuance, and a certain je ne ce quoi
Although this poem is not objectively true
Let me attempt to share that
this poem blooms from my developing cosmology
From the overtures of my Overself;
from the undercurrents of the Monomyth,
From my ***** and through my groans of intercession
This poem blooms from oblivion
Threading through philosophy, to worldview, and into a budding cosmology
For myself:
Worldview fell away when I found cosmology while reconnecting with the night sky
That night sky took me places while grounding me concurrently in inner spaces
Where locating self flows into meta-cognitive health,
Well ... that is something to write about
May 24, 2023
May 24, 2023 at 8:25 PM UTC
Butter-baste in haste
For better poet-taste
Reposting pastry
Poet-tastery
Pronounced as mastery:
Poetastery
Past repast
It goes down fast
Poetic firsts shall be last
Lyrically-paced
Poetry-based
Poetry's straitjacket, unlaced
Lack of meaning showcased
Aug 9, 2019
Aug 9, 2019 at 5:34 PM UTC
don't inflict me with your
introspection,
dangerous, idle, self-reflection,
tap out of my headspace
my cerebral territory is not a good place
I don't need to think about my thinking
metacognition is a fruitless mission
I'm telling you now
get out
get out
get out
Jan 24, 2019
Jan 24, 2019 at 10:34 PM UTC
inside of my mind
where no one else goes
darkened and shady
brilliantly posed
flowers run wild
while fears plant their seeds
i quietly sit
spaced out and relieved
empty voices speak
notes too high to hear
other times louder
than a scream to the ear
windows glow yellow
the moon sometimes too
mostly alone, unless i think of you
i’m walking down roads
alone and afraid
an empty hand
a shovel-less *****
toxic is the blood
that feeds off my thoughts
memories and wishes
destroyed and distraught
a kiss far too much
an embrace miles away
waking and sleeping
night turns to day
victimless mind
how quickly you fall
under the spell
cast by the call
Apr 24, 2018
Apr 24, 2018 at 5:06 PM UTC
Be careful all you free-versin’ poetic hook-up artists and practitioners of unprotected textual *********** There are pernicious poetic maladies out there online. Casual cruising of ****** sites might infect your soul with bad verse. The wages of sin is death; but I would spare you AND your muse any viral regrets.
Random coupling with unstructured lines you just picked up at some postmodern poetry site is NOT a healthy lifestyle in the long run. Go ahead–-call me a Victorian ***** Make fun of meter and rhyme schemes. Hoot at message-oriented versification. Throw inchoate drivel in my face… but when you come down with a compromised semantic system or an embarrassing case of nihilistic verborrhea, don’t come crying to me.
This has been a poetic public health reminder.
Nov 20, 2016
Nov 20, 2016 at 9:44 PM UTC
Meta cognition
is what's in my heart, why
did you promise till death do us part?
Play the tape through
I'll keep the possibility
in my back pocket
Behind the black line is where I stand
Outside the context is where I am lost
Apr 8, 2016
Apr 8, 2016 at 4:02 AM UTC
☺☻☺☻
When painters who paint about painting
meet writers who write about writing,
self-conscious redundancy
bordering lunacy
ends in esthetic in-fighting.
These modernists, right about nothing
(mostly nihilists mad about something)
are so lost in the process
they vent all their excess
in metacognition: dull writing.
You poets who muse about musing –
unaware you are reader-abusing,
provide a terrific
verbose soporific,
yet not of the hearer’s own choosing…
I long for some righteous verbosity –
but I’m stifled by all the pomposity.
This dull erudition,
“sub-metacognition”,
is but an artistic atrocity.
You thinkers who think about thinking
drag my spirit far lower than sinking.
What we want is a Word
which we haven’t yet heard –
so till then I’ll just drink about drinking.
Sep 11, 2015
Sep 11, 2015 at 5:40 PM UTC
I have always been a writer.
When I was younger
I thought my ability to write
Was finite. I thought
My creativity would dry up
Like a pond in summer.
Now I realize the number
Of stories you write is not limited
To the number of pages you have
Or the amount of ink in your pen.
Creativity is the wind around us:
Although you can never really catch it:
You feel its presence on your skin
Even though it's not always present,
It's always certain to return.
I will always be a writer.
Apr 28, 2014
Apr 28, 2014 at 10:51 AM UTC