Genius is a word used generously to describe one who can see the end from the beginning. It is a desirable flaw, much like being tall, I tend to crack my skull and step in my own traps if I lose vigilance in my self-awareness.
It may seem bold to some to label myself thusly, but they misunderstand the nature of this gift is not all plusses. A mighty brain makes mighty messes. There is always the tendancy to hide in plain sight, plain speech, plain clothes. But no wolf-in-sheepsuit ever mentions the road of self denial leads to hell, and is paved with good intentions.
Excuse my verbosity, I’m bona fide (when I don’t hide), I cannot lie. I just try not to brag. I’m sly and I’m sleek, bold, meager, and meek. I’m shy but I’m chic, and I still freely let my freak flag fly.
I edit, admittedly, but I still speak straight from the heart. It is up to the listener to decide whether I am concise or condescending. I wish only to graciously admit my blessings and openly reveal my curse.
I’m tragically bored almost always. The middle is mundane. I hate small talk. Obviousness annoys me. Do not ask me how I am. It’s a long story and I will tell you every word. I fish with my words. I cast my thoughts as a baited lure. I act too sure that everyone will bite, even though, often, I fish with a kite.
I hope only your thoughts will unite with mine in flight. I admit, that if you don’t get it, that it’s probably me. Most of the time my thoughts sound deep but are just silly. Like a silently falling tree, I am only what you make believe.
Sometimes I dream of myself laughing madly. The line between genious and insanity is focus and clarity.
Mental health is always a good start. I haven’t the heart to edit myself, to put my thoughts on a shelf and market them, why?
I’m just a first draft kinda guy.
All I want to bring you is this present I sing you. I write this moment, this hereandnow song. What good is what has come and gone?
What good is yesterday but false assumptions to learn from? I keep feeling wrong about what I did, so now I give to you what I do.
My thoughts are always a step behind my mind. These words look pretty and stuff but they’re mostly fluff, yesterday’s bluff to myself about my soulwealth and spirithealth. The wisdom is the product. Life is just the shelf.
I gift the world what I feel.
I gift the world what I feel it truly needs. It really needs tiny grains of truth, little wisdom seeds. We have enough overgrown weeds.
But how arrogant to claim to know. And amble about and to and fro to cast these seeds along the road. Plowing and harvesting takes work. I have been a pompous jerk. So I must now vow to improve my trade, to mend my fences and pick up my spade. The time for insolent whimsy is through. The world needs me now as I need you. The open ear is my driving force. You don’t have to listen, of course, because in my vanity can I believe just because you’re here, you hear and see me. So I could talk forever to the deaf and dance forever for the blind because why not? It helps me clear my mind.
Clarity! This is what I seek! After all these years my thoughts begin to reek and rot my confidence. My sense of self must be present tense. The echoing nonsense of zen speaks, but I forget now when I remember then.
One must confront one’s insanity before genious can follow. Because crazy bullshit is all vanity allows. No prince am I, my writings reveal. Which brings me to a point I fear I’ve long passed, since the only way my thoughts don’t decay in to put them down in prints.
Fortune favors the brave and those who work to save and savor to alave and labor towards that awful notion of zen’s ever demanding forward motion. John Henry is my muse, and Boxer, too. Refuse to lose but choose your battles. Because even the mightiest workhorse has a heart that, if worked too hard, is torn apart.
For I am the poetry. I am the hidden purpose of the nonsense. Order from the abstraction of chaos. My soul is pain, my thoughts snakes, my words venom, my love death. Ask me why. I answer maybe. Live to see. I die when I need and cry when I feed and feelings only occur to me when I run out of time to breathe. Relentlessly I seek to bleed.
Even now my mind is a steed, or more of an ass, as I think out loud to myself, “I’m writing Leaves of Grass!” I’m sorry, Walt. It was just what I thought. But I see now why thoughts are just that. He who wears his mind on his sleeve wears his ass for a hat.