Just Brian

Just Brian

just little old me
writing from my little old mind
with my little old keyboard
under my little old copyright
with my little old cracked smile


Posted by on September 23, 2014 in About Me



On Ubix, a billion light-years from earth, lives an issue of blob-like creatures of diverse colors. Because the Ubixians have pea-sized gelatinous brains, they believed their gods cursed the yellow blobs. (no one knew how this rumor began). The greens make up the elite stratum, being considered high-born.

The inhabitants are yellow or green on their pink planet, with a million shades between. Yet they developed an elaborate practice of favoring or disfavoring each other depending on their greenish or yellowish hue. They told proverbs that directed their offspring to accept their chromatic lot in life. Parents of globby greens would make annual sacrifices to the Ubixian gods, praying that their offspring would grow up solely to slime with other greens. The gods forbid that a yellow should slide in with them.

Folklore has it that the chief god of Ubix visited incognito as one of them. It took on a yellow blob form. The greens and many yellows (those who capitulated to the cultural lies) rejected the yellow appearing god-glob. The cloaked god was both amused and saddened by the blind ignorance of the planet’s occupants. After all, it had produced them as both colors. The olive and yellow officers nabbed the god, who looked just a worthless yellow blob, and squished the yellow ooze out of it until it died.

But a god blob can’t stay flat, so it reconstituted itself and went back to its celestial home. Now, if any Ubixian realizes they are both yellow and green at their core–(just like the god-blob), they are ready to molt. These uplifted blobs expand into a new continuation where neither yellow, green, nor any other distinction could isolate them. They are on equal foot stems, connected to the god blob, and precursors of Ubixian cultural insight.

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Posted by on January 24, 2022 in humor, Poetry, Short Story



Who’s Who

The character of a name

a person's actual wealth

their fame and shame

tags on the shelf

very difficult to tame

swelling with acclaim

world's referencing frame

one is to blame

for who you became

by your name

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Posted by on January 23, 2022 in Poetry



At Home -Haiku

Lion cubs are shrimps
dependency is safety
home includes a roar

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Posted by on January 23, 2022 in haiku



The Cut

She was thirty-three 
with long feathery black and red-dyed hair
rail-thin with a long nose
my hairstylist 
used to be called a barber

often, you get a five-minute quicky
astounded why it now costs twenty bucks
tip not included 

- but
she took her time
talked about her five kids - clip clip snip
her mom isn't exasperated by her anymore - comb clip
or her two-month separation
from a second husband with issues - clip snip clip
her ulcerative colitis

she eats and goes often - faster snips
(the excessive combing is scraping my scalp to shreds)
she passed out at work last week
not sleeping and eating tons of ramen noodles - comb comb
snip clip snip - sniff

Now I'm as old as dirt - 
probably older than her father
but worked up the pluck to offer her my number
she refused it politely -- 

thanked me for the compliment
(the noise of my head being vacuumed)
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Posted by on January 21, 2022 in Poetry, true story




The night onlooker haunts the shadow ship’s decks; 
only the picture of your face can quell my suffering. 
You are a full moon mirrored in the placid water.

Slimy tentacles are tugging me down from the abyss—tempestuous waves 
crest into my sputtering throat. 
My eyes scan for the horizon, yearning to see 
your lighthouse. Swelling, I can almost spot you. 
Plunging, the despair of your absence swallows me whole again.

You are:

My night.
    The eclipsing of my wet dreams.
       The picture of the yellow flower in your hair &
            The anchor chain of our phantom ship.

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Posted by on January 21, 2022 in Poetry



Hunga Tonga-Hunga Ha’apai -Haiku

one volcano burp
all pretense of management
becomes a sculpture

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Posted by on January 20, 2022 in haiku, Poetry



Nothing Burgers

“So I walk up on high
And I step to the edge
To see my world below
And I laugh at myself
While the tears roll down
‘Cause it’s the world I know
Oh, it’s the world I know.”
– Collective Soul—The World I Know
I chuckle at myself for
what I frequently considered 
my world was merely an artificial
Looking out over 
the purple-wooded vistas &
whooshing kaleidoscopic leafy fractals. 
I cherish ninja black squirrels, red maples, 
ravenous lions and razor-taloned eagles. 
Indeed even eight-eyed 
furry tarantulas are splendid. 

The fly wallowing in the lotion 
complains having arms, legs, massive brain, 
and stinks to lofty heavens. 

The villain in the lodge repulses 
when I “step to the edge.” 
only to see more golden arches. 

Yes, people 
have molded a sorry excuse 
for their anti-planet world, 
from which I conclude 
the human, the “Man,” 
the establishment, 

is rotten to the core.


Posted by on January 19, 2022 in Poetry, World News,



Watch The Children

I’ve had about enough of you. (More than enough)

You know to whom I am talking. There’s a footprint on your scaly head. It’s from a heel mark fragmenting your serpentine skull. You pretend you are still ascendant here, reclining on the throne of your crumbling citadel. You are gaming the gullible using your willing, brainwashed minions. And when any stand up to you, you try to make them an example. But you overplay your hand as usual. Yes, you are the puppet master of useful idiots. They have eyes but cannot see, ears but only hear what you allow them to.

There are two kinds of ignorance: one is a constitutional inability to absorb information, the other is willful and stubborn. Like an ostrich sticking its head in the sand, red-faced little hotheads hold their ears, refusing any input that doesn’t agree with their preconceived ideas. And to think that these often call themselves academics and scientific. The super-duper dupe artist is duping them, who is the god of this dimming world. Its followers trust themselves as the arbiters of how the world consensus should think. But their mental twist isn’t original with themselves but from a higher source. They expose your underbelly when anyone follows the money and the power.

The tools are always the same, media mass communication and political agendas. When these align, watch out! A rubbery-faced spirit hovers over and presides over so-called progressive plans. Pulling the strings, it cannot abide dissent. It demands goose-stepping obedience, heads mechanically turning side to side, watching their dull-eyed leader.

But hear this: the jig is up. You, old Mr. Jinx, are now on full display. Like Smaug, the mythic dragon, you smugly recline on your claim to power, but you’ve hoarded your treasure long enough. A child shall again unseat you.



Not About You

You demanded that I not write about you anymore, but how shall I not sing of a category five hurricane rooting up a cottage home? How shall I not return an eagle's voice to a quivering heart torn to shreds? 

How shall I not yowl like a freak hit with a silver bullet? Can I be quiet when the mallet-driven stake impales the chest or silent before the face of the cat nibbling off wriggling parts of the mouse before the kill?

No, I can't write you. Who were you anyway? -- indeed, not the person I imagined -- more like the widow accommodating its mate before becoming scarfed down as her next naked lunch.

I fell for your well-crafted act, not for the puppeteer above the porcelain doll, so how do I not write poetry of my downfall into the horny pit of a polished pretender who assumes this yarn is all about them?

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Posted by on January 18, 2022 in Poetry



It’s Easy, Or It’s Not

Though standing behind the picture books, I saw you
that October night with a ghoulish moon,
a glimpse of who as the glass doors opened
of a voluptuous figure passing through?

The snippet of an online photo couldn't say.
Like a scratched-off lottery ticket,
the wasted unmatching don't pay.

Where did my rising hope dock from?
Or you, another narcotic chemistry?
The awkward moment wafted away
when the lips fit a stellar time

your eyes outshone the need for deducing
setting an old salt sailor at ease
to tease.
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Posted by on January 18, 2022 in Poetry