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#sonsun
"***you have the power to inundate, pro-create as you initiate the young with the magic of your words.***" ^ <> awake, askew, at just past midnight, reread these worded cords with no deliberate haste, as is not my wont, no smile and drive~by for these privileged privies, that unknowingly wrench and divvy my parts no, theses require forethought, deliberation, there will be no outpouring, there is no need, this is not a crack to be slow filled with a potter's artisan gold, but a cutting that highlights continental divides, wounded spaces and pain, for which no glossing over can easy relieve, each word a chosen well for you make your own Grand Canyons, in this life, chasms that render, sunders with a constant but invisible echoed thundering, off /of my soul, turned my persona, physical and intellectual, into a walking, though awaking of the deadening of a personal failure, a fail~you~are, that cannot be undone, and now, out loud, alone in the dead of night, in the construct of early mourning, yes, in the sunroom where there is no sun nor son, I weep openly at words that should not have been so tenderly and sweetly, tendered to me inundate, I know this word, better than most, for grief is an old acquaintance that you want to keep at a good distance, for when it in-un-dates you, you, visibly marked, a cheekbone or two crushed, a limp with no raison d'etre and a chest pain, no pill can bring to heel for I am a centuries old grief, and the inundation I speak of, is the loss of child, who has divided his living cells from my mine~mind how oft, what is plainly visible, is missed, goes dot unconnected, this pulsing compulsion to lift the chin of the beginners in life, whose sorrowed demeanor, complected temperament, incompleted confusions, can sometimes be so easy swatted, encouraged away, and sometimes not, but openly pleads for compassionate leave, an easy helpful nudge away from from the riptides of growing up, & growing lower... so my wonderful life is not so wonderful, and my bad posture bent over is not from laziness, my surgically repaired ventricular machina, is more than a physical symptom, just a ticking clock that solves for the quantity of beats of busted opportunities outside, an owl, perched in a nearby acorn growing giant. whom we have never seen, for darkness, his/her palatial estate, hiding place, hoots with no regularity, a derisive hooting, thinking I am too, asking for compassionate leave, 'but I am not some five, nearly six decades ago, a young songwriter wrote: "**Teach your children well Their father's hell did slowly go by Feed them on your dreams The one they pick's the one you'll know by**"^^ this never just passes by, for its arrow is a permanent implantation in mine, and the owl just hoot hoot hoots with the stubbornness of an unhappy chile^^^ so I see now, how I overcompensate, and without a knowed thought, extend a finger, an arm. an entire tired life, to initiate, pro-create the younger ones, (1) but this still, does not, nor ever will it, rhyme with expiate this, my very own 9/11, and that other one, which I experienced, as well... 2:03am Thu Sep 11 Twenty Twenty Five <nml> now, I rest, for how long?
0
Sep 11, 2025
Sep 11, 2025 at 9:36 AM UTC
nat-lipstadt
The Power to Inundate
"***you have the power to inundate, pro-create as you initiate the young with the magic of your words.***" ^ <> awake, askew, at just past midnight, reread these worded cords with no deliberate haste, as is not my wont, no smile and drive~by for these privileged privies, that unknowingly wrench and divvy my parts no, theses require forethought, deliberation, there will be no outpouring, there is no need, this is not a crack to be slow filled with a potter's artisan gold, but a cutting that highlights continental divides, wounded spaces and pain, for which no glossing over can easy relieve, each word a chosen well for you make your own Grand Canyons, in this life, chasms that render, sunders with a constant but invisible echoed thundering, off /of my soul, turned my persona, physical and intellectual, into a walking, though awaking of the deadening of a personal failure, a fail~you~are, that cannot be undone, and now, out loud, alone in the dead of night, in the construct of early mourning, yes, in the sunroom where there is no sun nor son, I weep openly at words that should not have been so tenderly and sweetly, tendered to me inundate, I know this word, better than most, for grief is an old acquaintance that you want to keep at a good distance, for when it in-un-dates you, you, visibly marked, a cheekbone or two crushed, a limp with no raison d'etre and a chest pain, no pill can bring to heel for I am a centuries old grief, and the inundation I speak of, is the loss of child, who has divided his living cells from my mine~mind how oft, what is plainly visible, is missed, goes dot unconnected, this pulsing compulsion to lift the chin of the beginners in life, whose sorrowed demeanor, complected temperament, incompleted confusions, can sometimes be so easy swatted, encouraged away, and sometimes not, but openly pleads for compassionate leave, an easy helpful nudge away from from the riptides of growing up, & growing lower... so my wonderful life is not so wonderful, and my bad posture bent over is not from laziness, my surgically repaired ventricular machina, is more than a physical symptom, just a ticking clock that solves for the quantity of beats of busted opportunities outside, an owl, perched in a nearby acorn growing giant. whom we have never seen, for darkness, his/her palatial estate, hiding place, hoots with no regularity, a derisive hooting, thinking I am too, asking for compassionate leave, 'but I am not some five, nearly six decades ago, a young songwriter wrote: "**Teach your children well Their father's hell did slowly go by Feed them on your dreams The one they pick's the one you'll know by**"^^ this never just passes by, for its arrow is a permanent implantation in mine, and the owl just hoot hoot hoots with the stubbornness of an unhappy chile^^^ so I see now, how I overcompensate, and without a knowed thought, extend a finger, an arm. an entire tired life, to initiate, pro-create the younger ones, (1) but this still, does not, nor ever will it, rhyme with expiate this, my very own 9/11, and that other one, which I experienced, as well... 2:03am Thu Sep 11 Twenty Twenty Five <nml> now, I rest, for how long?
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