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Tuesday, July 16, 2019

Labyrinth Project Creators Journal - Jerry Randolph Gilmer

Poet: Jerry Randolph Gilmer
New Orleans, Louisiana USA



Sometimes I'm amazed...
Scratch that.
I'm Often amazed at just what little inconsequential thing catches my beat.
Idiosyncratic synchronicities that latch onto whatever bit of me that falls over from dehydration before it'll willingly stop writing.
The fact of the matter is that it's seldom anything that I'd assume Should matter.
The small inconsistencies are endlessly bugging the crap out of me.
Well...why is it that I find the length of a neck more tantalizing than the whole of a gorgeous body?

Do all the critters running around trying to get laid in the Southern heat not realize that their plaintive screams of "Somebody just get over here and FUCk me already!!" are interpreted by most people as the "Romantic ambient sounds of Summer", or some such nonsense?
Would they give a damn if they did?
I'm no zoologist, but I'm fairly certain we're the only critters that blush over our urges.
It's as if we were breathed into existence for the sole purpose of complicating it.
Matters of Simplicity like to complicate me.
Larger, life altering, some would infer "real" moments have to struggle to gather my attention.
But that by no means implies they don't. 
I just tend to get to it in a round about manner.
I suspect it has some root wedged in my severely distorted attention span.
I wander in and out of life changing events as if I'm looking for where I set down my coat.
Should someone have a random, stray speck of glitter on their forearm?
I'm transfixed.
Could be the epilepsy.
I even tested super high into the Asperger's thing. 
The test.
But that's all doctor babble.
I've met doctors.
I've Trained doctors.
Doctors are, in my humble opinion, really, really intelligent morons.
But that's a me thing.
When my Father was killed? A few months later getting my Mother through breast cancer successfully only to lose Her shortly after to what amounted to a broken heart?
I didn't write Anything.
For at least a year.
Then it was a year after I began again before I even touched all That.
Same thing when my body started failing.
Seizures, suddenly wheelchair guy, that stuff.
Just wrote about glitter.
Fell in, and out of love a few times.
Two pretty big falls.
One near biblical plummet.
I suppose I just have to ramp up to "real".
So here I recline. 
Currently thick in the process of evicting my housemate.
Various, very valid, very real reasons.
Thick with glitter.
Could be I require the minutiae of the mosaic to muddle through the momentous moments.
But kinda fun to say. so...
Could be I'm a coward.
Maybe neither, either, or both.
Fuck if I know.
I just write here.

Here. Have a thing:


That's what I see.
As deep as I dive.
Whatever I breathe.

Escaping within
Lacks what I need.
Imbibing a lie
Is feeding this seed.

And it hurts!
Every inhalation
Begins dying at birth.
Belying exhalation.

Babbling about "just breathe".
Let's let it all whisper out.
That bullshit make believe 
Simply amplifies my doubt.

If you refuse to see;
Ignore falling sky?
It seems to me I'm free
To not ponder why.

Indefensible indifference.
Kick back.
Lounge in me.
Reprehensible intransigence. 
I'm back.
Comfort me.

The Hell's the point?
Untwist that for me.
Could be this joint
Knows more than thee.

Plot's getting thin.
Ink starts to bleed.
Haul ass to die
Before I concede?

And it hurts!
Every inhalation
Begins dying at birth.
Belying exhalation.

Babbling about "just breathe".
Let's let it all whisper out.
That bullshit make believe 
Simply amplifies my doubt.

If this is meant to be.
If they've cast the die.
It seems to me I'm free
To queue up, and fly.

Indefensible indifference.
Kick back.
Laugh with me.
Reprehensible intransigence. 
Stay slack.
Comfort me.



I am meant to have a process.
A structure, of sorts, to get me from the top of a thought to the bottom.
Hopefully intact.
I don't know. 
Do I?
Explain myself?

I wake up. Almost always sometime after I've fallen asleep.
Timing doesn't really seem to apply.
15 minutes, 30 minutes, or 10 hours.
The sun can do what it wants.
As long as it stays well away from whatever nest I've ended up in.
I think I'm cathemeral. 
Like a lemur.
I wake when I'm made to, so I can get my what not done.
My whatnot is writing.
Not all grown up writing.
I'm a Poet. 
After a fashion. 
A lyricist, really. 
Although I do, from time to time, get struck with an unleavened bolt of whatever the hell, and scribble out little stories. 
Real quick like before they scamper off where someone with talent can five course meal them.
I'm at best the Amuse-bouche of writing.
Maybe the aperitif.
Utterly unimportant, but useful for justifying the expense.

At least that's how I see it.
But it's maybe best to not go by me. I'm more than a little detached.
I had an ongoing, circuitous, often maddening, yet always entertaining back and forth with my most "X" of exes about whether or not someone could Know they were eccentric. 
I always lost.
Unless I didn't. 
It tended to depend on how much time we had until the next social engagement. 
Mustn't fuck with our public.

I kinda sorta "won" in the end.
On account of me losing my mind. 
It's true. 
I have a Doctor's note.
He lost his too, so crowns all around.

I'm meant to write about writing.
I'd really rather not.
It makes one inexplicably honest, does the writing about writing.
I'll inevitably go deliriously off-book, intent upon chasing whatever rabbit caught my eye.
I have many rabbits.
My name should've been Warren.
Cause rabbits live in warrens?
It's a joke.
It's a terrible joke, but I'm a Poet, not a comic, so I'm perfectly fine with my bad rabbit joke.
Cozy even.

But the process.
I find something.
Then I fiddle with it.
I'm likely to dive into my tragedies. 
Always good for poetry.
Love works too.
Or it doesn't, which is kinda the whole point.
I'm unlikely to be 100% honest.
I'm being 100% honest about that.
We shall see, I suppose.
I'll see when you see.
Here! An unhelpful hint:
I seldom know what I'm writing about.
I get backhanded by a word, or phrase, or whatever, and then I write, and write, and write.
To the exclusion of everything else.
Then I read what I wrote.
I mean, I feel somewhat justified. It's not as if I'm taking liberties. I may not know the why of a thing, but I sling the ink, so yeah, I peek at it.
That's usually when I know what it is I was writing about.
At the end.
Not always, but usually.
I think I'm done.
I'll maybe scribble more later.
Maybe not.
Fuck if I know, I just write here.

Oh! Here. Have a poem


I misplaced my mind again.
Wasn't really worth the time.
It tended to fuck with my sin.
I fly better without my mind.

When I spy myself a shy horizon

I tend to dash, and splash right in.
I find they need a good surprising
Otherwise they get too thin.

May come the day I settle down.

Buy up all the castles I can find.
Till then I'll bother my slice of ground.
Maybe even paint a "not yet" sign.

I must lace my mind again.

Can't rightly recall last time.
It's mended so I owe it sin.

I Find flying really suits my mind.

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