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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
Preparing for Shakaat Artist-in-Residency. Performed at the Owl Acoustic Lounge on May 24, 2023.
Who is near to hold me
Any that may be concerned
Am sinking in a heart i dont belong
Taken by a nother but open to me
Dreams go missing every night
Even though i bare a great bed
Thoughts of fear had intruded my thinking
Fear of loosing what i havenot.
Little it looks though taken my attention
The shortest distance but hard to travel
When night falls i stand far from my bed
Afraid to meet the same thoughts about her
Engraved my liberty to rest seating on my courage
Am under an umbrella of a stagnant life.
AJ Farruco Dec 2018
I’m unstable, but she could lose a haystack in a needle/ I don’t need you blowing your stack/ Blaming me for all the mess in the world/ Forget a house, you can’t clean one room/ It represents her mind, but I’m so tired... of this headspace/ I hate this place, it’s just making me feel even more sick/ Been packing your bags for five years, trying to force me into a guilt-trip/ You’re not never wrong, & I’m not always right/ We’re left with each other because no-one else gets it/ If you want an enemy, look in the mirror/ But you’ll have to clean it first, get rid of the dust & the cobwebs/ I’m only trying to help, even though you know that I can’t help myself/ Went from “do the right thing”, to “something”, to “anything at all”/ Crying ourselves to fake sleep, nervous wreckingballs in chains/ Desperate to break free, but just breaking down instead/ Destroying what we have, thinking about what you havenot/ What’s the point in getting cats when we’ve already ruined our kids’ lives?/ Two bi-polar parents prone to going to extremes/ Going to bed too late, then can’t get up in the mourning/ A wild wingless pegasus stained with dirt in a pigsty/ Sitting in a cell, phone in hand, jerking my tears off/ She’s a broken record, I’m pins & needles in her arms/ She wants to go to rehab, pushing too hard to pull me out/ I know exactly what it’s like, but prefer metaphors to similes/ We raise zombies that only say sorry when they’re hungry.../
15/07/2017.

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