Live Spoken Word, "every clock is a handgun" — s05e07

👉 YouTube Video of this live spoken word performance👉 “every clock is a handgun pointed at my head,” Amazon book & ebookCold OpenI feel like a brilliant creative soulas if…trapped in a damaged body& neurologytrying to communicate with the worldthrough an intermittently short-circuiting transistor radioplaying through static& the distortion& sparking circuits…to just be heard.Do you understand at all what I mean?IntroYou're listening to AutisticAF Out Loud. One voice. Raw. Real. Fiercely Neurodivergent. Since 1953.Season 5, Episode 7 is special. This live spoken word performance comes straight from my first Amazon book, "every clock is a handgun pointed at my head." Raw insight into my autism… and ADHD.No hidden meanings. Nothing to decode. Just real life. Meant for autistics who need to be seen… And for family, allies, and researchers who want to see us truly. Not through Hollywood's lens of Rain Man and Love on the Spectrum.Just one 72-year-old autistic elder's truth. I'm Johnny Profane.Content Note: Frank discussion of trauma, including sexual abuse. Because… frankly… most autistics I've known survived trauma. This material may be triggering.Subscribers to my Substack receive a free PDF of the entire book. Links to Amazon book and ebook are in the podcast notes.Btw, tomorrow, Sunday 8/31, I'm doing another live performance for subscribers. 12:45 Eastern, 4:45 UTC.With that? Let's dive right in.Live Spoken Word Performance, 8/24/251. Dancing Close to the Edge of the NoiseThought i’d start with a metaphor… something that autistics see…right away. And I think will help.. This autist at least… be seen.#AskingAuDHDists…bear with me a minute.I'm autistic+ADHD.71.i feel likea brilliant creative soulas if…trapped in a damaged body& neurologytrying to communicatewith the worldthrough an intermittentlyshort-circuiting transistor radioplaying through static& the distortion& sparking circuits…to just be heard.do you understand at all what I mean?#ActuallyAutistic #ADHD #ReallyAuDHD2. That Song I'll Never Sing to My Son So let me build another bridge. Who doesn’t relate to children.Like some angelWith a dislocated shoulderHalf f l y i n g H a l f fallingYounger to olderFrom the day I was born.Tumbling to earthRushing up belowBody on f i r eH e a r t aflameIn s l o – m o ,a horror picture show…To a silent piano score…Like that songI’ll never singTo my son.Like that songLike this song….Don’t be a dickReal talk…It’s harder than you think…Listen up…Maybe…Don’t mask… protecting othersDon’t please yourselfLess than bosses & lovers…Hold up…Most of all…Don’t forgetTo have a kidLike you mightForgetThat call-in contestYou just knewYou could winCuz you knew all the words….Gimme a minute.I need a minute…Like some angelThrown outta heavenH a l f fallingHalf f l y i n gFrom what should’ve been…The day I was born.Like that songOn that game show…That I’ll never sing…To that sonI never hadHell,Like this song.3. My Friend BillyOne last bridge. Before we maybe jump off the cliff… They say we don’t having emotions. Or make friends. Clue… I ain’t Spock.65Going on death,Woke to a frozen worldWhere no car creptA day no singing birdWas left aliveA day another friendSighed his last breathPolar vortexBlew thru my trailerWrapped windows in blanketsStale air hung like failureCranked the ovenCracked its doorSealed the entries to my lifeLike a bunker in warSettled in for a day alonePicked up the phoneMy only open door…Wars, rumors of warsDisasters revealedDisasters concealedAcross its screenA dying world's dreamsI read the news,A politician liesLocal man dies…Wind froze my heartAnother sun setsThat'll never riseAnother friendWhere I can't hear his criesBilly…I wish I were that poetSay, Yeats sweet voiceOr at least L. CohenRaised in bitter rejoiceTo toast his life of rough edgesBut I see him clearTears in his eyesLaffingHow he outraced copsAcross Arizona desertsOr burnt a scumbag dealerOr how his child came to be bornCryingAbout a woman he lovedThose kids he missed seeingLocked in his roomPicking at scabsDyingOne bottle at a timeHe lived for loveHe lived for laughsHe left little moreThan a church full of folksWho missed him for an hourHe was Billy.And now years laterHe won't leave my autistic mindAnd still laffs in my autistic heartTeaching it how to praise.AdHey… quick favor? Social media algorithms bury voices like ours. But if you hit subscribe, like, or share? A lot more people may get a chance to truly see autism. One click does a lot of good.4. every clock is a handgun pointed at my head So now we… maybe… know each other a little better. Let's cut deeper… My time? It can’t be measured. Not a dimension… perhaps yours. It’s a force. A violent force.IIIEvery clock is a handgun pointed at my headEvery tick, tick… fucking tickTolling Fear, Doom… dreadClick. Slide. Cock… click.Every night a mantra echoes through my headTV static… a crazy-making humSinging Dream, Drempt… dead…Not done. Not done. Not done… undone10, 9, 8… Dread7, 6, 5… Fear4, 3, 2… BEEP.Shoot the moon… or the country next doorCountdown. Deadline. Bow down… dead.Bound behind doors, bound in my headPace, paces, pacing… pacedEvery BEEP.Of the phone.Stops…my heart....I crash out with a scream for escapeIIWoodsDeep woodsDeepest woodsMy ears flyfrom bird songto bird song.A raptor circles then spiralsCrossing lines now deadWind steals my breathTaking words never saidThis skin bag of atmosphereBreathes new airWhen the sun risesFirst it is cooThen it gets warmThe day passesClouds above my head.Shaped by windOutside my bodyThe same windInside my bodyTheSameWindYet…I10, 9, 8… Dread7, 6, 5… Fear4, 3, 2… BEEP.Shoot the moon… or the country next doorCountdown. Deadline. Bow down… dead.Every clock is a handgun pointed at my headZero5. Believe I'll Ch-Ch-Change My Shirt Someone said an average writer borrows. The other kinds steal out right. Bowie, Robert Johnson, Marvin Gaye? I owe you guys one.Sunlight cracks my window,Gotta be midday.Kick myself a pathwayJust to pee into the bowl.Like a peek into that deepest hole,Zombie in the Mirror won’t let me look away —Same filthy shirt as yesterday,Body and soul.I Gotta Change.They say, “Ya gotta ch-ch-change.New day’s a-coming.Cuz that same old,It’s getting fucking old.”They say, “Shed that old skinFor one of truest gold…”I. Gotta. Change.Believe I’ll ch-ch-changeMy…Shirt.Karma’s a bitch dog, in heat.She prowls my old mind,Sleeps beside me every night…Feasting on defeats.No stone blocks this empty tombBut I can’t leave her behind...Memories of the darkest kindBlind my way outta this room...T H A T change I can not make—Faced all the strange this heart can take…I gotta change…I gotta change…I gotta change…I. Gotta. Change.Believe I’ll ch-ch-changeMy…Shirt.*Break it down…**I believe, I believe, I’ll go back home.**I believe, I believe, I’ll go back home.**You can mistreat me here, babe,**But you can’t when I get home…**Waitress smiles,**checkout jokes…**shoplifting contact**with little hope**casual chic in the cubicle**hoarding freak in the domicile**Molestation devastation**Frustration infestation**losing jobs**taking jabs**Meltdown, shutdown… losing your shit**Choose the label for your best fit**Can’t see the forest**For the leaves,**That’s what’s brought me**To my knees…*New day’s never coming.And that same old,Got fucking older.I yearn to shed that old skinI crave that shiny gold…I. Gotta. Change.Believe I’ll ch-ch-changeMy…Shirt.6. The Body AbidesThis one’s rough. For me. Maybe for you. Trauma’s… well, a bitch."Like I told youNothing really happenedCan't sleep is all..."He repeats his view,"The body watches.The body ALWAYSFucking watches.""Yeah, he kissed meFathers do that.Yeah, it was weird but..."He whispers me,"Your body, your witness.And *this* witness ALWAYSFucking watches."Then he leans in…"What if he'd kissedyour *sister's* lips...?""I'd fucking kill him."*That's when...*i see mein his mirrorwatching myselfwatch my selftransparently autistica son no more,yet the body...abides.images, never sharedimages… never daredhard, wet, franticfumbling… bareragedark rageScreaming RAGE*i'd fucking kill him**fucking kill him**kill him**him.*i rise...soslowlyand fucking smash that mirrori rock, i sway…i rub one red eye.i stand, I stare…I sigh, I say,"My body watchesThe body *ALWAYS*Fucking watches…"into a mirror staring nowhereAs I close his office door...I abide.AdOk. Before we jump back in… just a heads up that links to this live YouTube performance and the Amazon books are waiting in the show notes.7. Slouching toward Montauk I want to tell you a story. Short. Cuz, well, time’s short. Maybe the end Times. Who better to turn inside out than, well Yeats… and his Second Coming.... Let’s say… I’m in my 70s now. Happiest time of my autistic life.Not too worried about some fabulous unachievable autistic Nirvana… These days…Now, here’s that story.My grandfather was a… complex man.He slept beside an orderly nightstand.Tucking Mein Kampf tightIn its tidy drawer every night.And…He used to take me sailing out to Montauk Point… a sea journey from Bay Shore, Long Island… at least as he sailed it on the ocean side… swinging out into the deep water…In his telling, it was a fabulous place.Where a sandstone lighthouse lit the waves, warning of danger.Where the grass on the golf course grew sideways.And every single damn tree bowed toward the West…From the eternal wind blowing onshore.His heaven on earth, he called it…...The wind carries all the sound away…But its roar in my earscreates a kind of hushed silenceinside me...I always experience high anxietyas we lose sight of the shore.Just sky, waves & constant rolling…Disoriented.Like a whiteout in a blizzard.If you throw in some seasickness.But after an hour or so, I make my way to the prow. And sit.Wind on my faceSun on my bodySalt breeze filling my chest…Quieting my heart.Anxiety? Disorientation?I observeThe fixed lighthouseIn the far off dusk.Splashing its light… bravelyInto the spray.Knowing deepIn its softNative sandstone heart…Time and tide wait for it....I stop caring about the shoreline. And the anxious hell waiting for me on the other side. For hours at a time.....Who cares about sailing toward Montaukand its fabulous trees…anymore…Or.. ever again?I’m busy breathing in…thisfabulous momenthereOutroAutisticAF Out Loud is supported solely by listeners like you. Got a friend or family member touched by neurodiversity? Turn them on to us with a quick email.We believe no one should have to pay to be autistic. Many neurodivergent folks can't afford subscription content. Your Ko-Fi tip of any amount keeps this resource free for them. Or join our paid subscriber community for ongoing support.Both links are in the description.👉 YouTube Video of this live spoken word performance👉 “every clock is a handgun pointed at my head,” Amazon book & ebook#AutisticAF Out Loud Newsletter is a reader-supported publication. Click to receive new posts free… and a free PDF of the Amazon book “every clock is a handgun pointed at my head.” To support my work, please consider becoming a paid subscriber. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit johnnyprofaneknapp.substack.com/subscribe