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We suffered too, the “Touched” as we are called,

God’s child, Special Ed., Rehabilitating


a Style which is to Say, Beowulf
I would summon and the Smallest mermaid,
and he who made “Lemonade” from Sour
Strange Fruit: Ableism, Monsieur is a Crime
to the Feeble and it is a Mind Numbing
sentence, Ignore the Autism, attack by soft
smiling violence and mannequins galore…
all united in a State of control
Neurologic tyrannicaliteralists
Who bruise electroprocedurally
and by cognitive vice. For the odor
of ABleists, I kick your Butt with Verse 2.

Verse 2 is here and dedicated to


Scribd.com, publisher accessible
to a nerd Aspie outcast. What more what?
We invent a new FORM my Peeps yup we do.
Where we insist that it is Wrong for
false Perfects and fundamentalists when
they scissor with their jaws, to overtake
the internet. We will live On by blogger
or Twitter. I’d considered at first the rewards
of conforming but it’s impossibly
boring formaldehyde exhaling N
T’s in dominion and loving it too.
Slap down you lessers, half-humans, autists.
And so it was a Babble Coup de’tats.
And all of the condensation of Language
Could be cooked to full steam, boiled
In the fructose of unbridled muscles
That charge forward and make the turn just where
You need it, It’s time for Auspie Pride y Que
I can’t speak in more than one Patois though
I am a linguist and philosopher,
Historian and epic composer
Yet it is an Opera of Resistance?
Song to take me HIGHER to collect my Self
For I’ve extended past my sphere and GONE
To the Library call it what you like. Ashaik,
My Paloma Café where I had just come
From a Mercado all covered with Examples

Of something, something alerted and mute.


Oh Ableism of well-earned anonyms
are you peopled that you haunt all the Hay
stacks and the company barbeques too?
Ick Ick would have said that sister Sylvia,
Oh Bell, I know your Impression, its Tick
Is so wonderfully hypnotic. Quick to the Engine
Room of language, down into its Crisis,
Its Gutters and alleys, adolescent
Suspended, fantasized, how about some
Life (which is FREE) for us, the SPECTRUM Q.
That’s Q for Quotient. We’d like to enjoy
The rights that you Do and for that reason,
We speak for the Few free and Easy for
the neglected Epic Butterflies Blue.
Blue who comes upon without premise is THRUST
at us-a friggen Canvas…Denied anew
condensed, enumerated, classified.
Material what strange existence you
have that I can’t push or pull you
uncertain pressures: what are you Matter?
so buoyant vibrate and tell me of what I
await and Save me another despot
or two for HERE (back at that edge) and THERE
up and upward ascending into WHERE…
Congruencies demonstrated: Are YOU
with me? I’ve got so much to Tell of Fine
Letters as they bespeak of these Matters.
John Ashberry would be just one good start.

…And the bellybuttons danced all around…

padam padam a Spectrum of kindness


kinetic “A KIND” of a Noun and not
Adjective. It is not sympathy, rather
it’s a standard unparallalled—a more
inclusive form of belonging. And where
can it happen if not on my Keyboard,
on an electric parchment with its tools
present, as simple as are required
by a poet like me. I don’t expect
what comes of the Mix while I weave weave
a rainbow for Neuro Diversity
I teach as I go and wear a Nametag
for a doctor of philosophy. Sure,
whatever you believe it requires.

An Autoescribd sonnet sequence for Fools


of April. Anapestic resistance.
A three-part rhyme might be more enchanting
but I’m not going to give up my time
for new changes of metrics in verses.
I see nothing that is wrong currently.
Sir, I understand but it causes me
difficulties when I don’t comprehend
the intonations and crimes you impute
to my mental proclivities. They’re not
weak so much as they are dissonant numbed
and multiplicated engorged and high
voltage beneath a smooth exterior
of forethought and grammar. A Molten core.

Having a Molten Core is how I speak


of Autism when lived out it is Ongoing
in development and redeveloped
at all times. Imagine if you only
spoke in algebraic formulas when
attempting to purchase produce in stores.
Yet this would only suggest the simplest
analogy, one dimensional--seems
easy enough. Though this is its first step.
There are many more of them and curves, pit-
falls, and obstacles all along the way.
And as we make it through society,
we continue in the mental product
of a mind that is developing SLOW
because its TORRENTIAL. I often Felt
the Neurologic discomforts of this
disability, as Internal Rain.
I wrote, “Storm Inside of poetic rain.” Drip Drop.
It has a tail that leads to its mouth
and the steamboat force of an immense mind
inches forth. I don’t claim it is Mine. No,
I don’t. I believe that I am a KIND
of Person, a someone ELSE, a poet…
only by proclivity and pan’s flute.
We shall dance we shall dance and We shall dance.

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