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Top of Page Vi DeO ​ Sampler from my Channel I am passionate about making education more dynamic through video. As a novice, I have so much to learn and many more works to produce. Below is just a smattering. MORE TO COME ! Video Library Toni Scorsese Productions Toni Scorsese Productions Play Video Share Whole Channel This Video Facebook Twitter Pinterest Tumblr Copy Link Link Copied Search video... All Categories All Categories babies Cognition Coping Skills DID Education Educational Emotions Memory Mental Illness Processes Psychology Ruminating Style Schizophrenia Self-paced Tutorial Strategies Thinking Toni Scorsese Toni Scorsese Productions Video Video Invitation Video Quiz Now Playing Toni Scorsese Video Teaser 00:41 Play Video Now Playing MEMORY PROCESSES 2021 16:14 Play Video Now Playing Toni Scorsese Productions 01:29 Play Video Now Playing Cognition 09:38 Play Video Now Playing What is...Wrong with Katelyn? 05:00 Play Video Now Playing Schizophrenia vs. DID 02:50 Play Video Now Playing PBIN General Meeting 4-8-17 00:55 Play Video Now Playing PBIN Social at Subculture 4-7-17 00:55 Play Video Bottom of Page Main Feature

Top of Page poE Try ​ From my Right Hemisphere It's NOT Semantics: It's my Word 45 Secons after REM... This Child The Fraud Forget the Thunder Wednesday's Heart Harbor Quenched Everything Covid Fever Those Bottom of Page Water for Dirt You say you can walk on water, but you can’t With every stride you take, you get a little more wet; You walk, you sink, you thrash for hope for floating on your back When you struggle to catch your breath, how do you count the steps? And as you sink suffocating, on water for dirt It’s heavy in your chest, you get a little more hurt; You walk, you sink, you thrash for hope for floating on your back With the shifting sand beneath your feet, how do you count the steps? I’ll take that water to slake my thirst… I’ll take that water to wash away my dirt… I’ll take that water, to give you some earth… Give you some earth, give you some land on which to measure every step. I can’t breathe, I can’t sleep, I can’t save you – you can’t save me; I must climb, you must swim, we must survive – to count the steps. I’ll choke that water to slake my thirst… I’ll douse that water to wash away my dirt… I’ll drown in that water, to give you some earth. Give you some earth, give you some dirt, give you some land on which to measure every step. The smallest increment of time, our paces, is the only way to measure every step. I promise to count each one with you. It's NOT Semantics: It's my Word Je peux épargner plus de lumière quand tu chutes. Chatoyant sur toi; sans fin comme seize enfoirés d’enculés. The Semantics of my Word: I can spare more light when you plummet. Shining on you, without end, like sixteen motherfucking cocksuckers. 45 Seconds after REM... …the canvas awakens on a boardwalk; Somewhere, USA. Evening dew paints a landscape awash in thick red, orange, blue, green, and yellow. A tapered handle of the brush echoes the wooden planks beneath them – the staccato of their footfalls as they run and marvel at this moment. He didn’t envision this; she didn’t design this – they are born of pigment and cloth. A palette of color marries their hands in mutual peace. An emerging illusion splatters in vibrant hues overcoming them both. They retreat into the panorama, curating the innocent, prime emotion slipping off the toe of the brush. Hand-in-hand, they await the belly’s stiff hairs to reflect their chatter, their giggles – their wonder. An errant finger dips into the paint, adding a splash of color to the scene. The night keeps pace as they take coherent shape. He whispers to her definitively the next strokes of the painting. She furtively, cautiously, follows his direction. They are rendered an opus. The tableau evolves into a ribbon of passion; both figures contributing to their shared vision of light and form. Detail and lines; smooth, wide, and erratic, yield a burst of awe. As he balances her elongated neck in his hand, they dance along the wet, saturated backdrop. They flush within the eddies of thick, red, orange, blue, green, and yellow. With rhythm in the tip of the brush, they blend a shade neither has previously seen, felt, tasted… …45 seconds after REM, they gasp for breath at its creation and melt into its triumph. This Child This child’s woe: Wednesday’s madness challenged my station on Earth. Told not to fear, not to fret – as if. This child’s grief: Sunday’s wishes humbled my passion on Earth. Told not to speak, not to bitch – as if. This child’s hope: Next month’s gift incites my purpose on Earth. Told not to dream, not to want – as if. What? Maybe I’m done. The Fraud How easily one can slip into authority. She emulates her mentors – self-professed frauds. The imposter syndrome begs the hardiest slice of education; embezzling every theory, every vocabulary term, and leaves her bereft of creativity…originality. How easily one can slip into irrelevance. She emulates her idols – self-professed frauds. The inferiority complex begs the hardiest slice of attention; embezzling every performance, every discussion, and leaves her bereft of knowledge…agency. How easily one can slip into poverty. She emulates her peers – self-professed frauds. The underserved majority begs the hardiest slice of recognition; embezzling every plea, every request, and leaves her bereft of motivation…sustenance. How easily one can slip into an alternate universe. She emulates her self-evaluation – an actual fraud. The cognition begs the hardiest acquittal; embezzling every year, every appointment, and leaves her bereft of opportunity…will. Harbor The Lady stands vigil in every weather Assigned to hold the family tether She wonders if unity has found its nether Why can’t the children play together? The Lady frowns dismayed in current climate Chagrined to hear voice is indurate She wonders if anomie has found its basement The ass, trunk, and shell – embarrassments! The Lady weeps forlorn in stormy season Wishing to school the flock their reason She wonders if discourse has found its treason If but she strives a day that’s even. The Lady hopes gravely in final era Bracing to learn a deal of dicker She wonders if bargain has found its terra To live in this land – all together. Quenched New York, mid-December. I’m eight. We played – rough & tumble; I’m knocked to my back. Beneath is hard, cold earth…no wind in my body can ease a burial. Instead, my eyes awake… Gold and Crimson. The skies above, as gray as the earth beneath – the colors pop, signaling another year lost. Florida, mid-December. I’m 54. We played – rough & tumble; I’m knocked to my back. Beneath is hollow, deadened earth…no wind in my chest can ease this surrender. Instead, my eyes awake… Gold and Crimson. The skies above, as empty as the earth beneath – the colors fade, forecasting another year wasted. Earth, mid-December, I’m older. We played – rough & tumble; I’m knocked to my back. Beneath is frozen, barren soil…no wind in my lungs can ease this reality. Instead, my eyes awake… Gold and Crimson. The skies above, more open than the earth beneath – the colors offering another year possible. I catch a snowflake on my tongue. Everything When time belabors, I wallow When time quickens, I panic Too enduring and I regret Too fleeting and I resent. The duplicity of time spawns the deep and manifests the shallow. When space unfolds, I dawdle When space implodes, I palsy Too boundless and I rue Too finite and I vex. The duplicity of space begets the waste and laments the stall. Enduring this intricate weave, I bemoan he never found the Unified Theory. Covid Fever Whisper to me from behind the film that hides us. Wrap me in the ties that bind us. Choke me with the lies that blind us. COVID my soul that apprise us. Calls – hoarse, unheard, forlorn: no surprise. Peek through the mask that shields us. Leap over the quarantine that separates us. Picket in the land that divides us. COVID my heart that despise us. This petition, repetition, contrition: falls flat. Heed the rumor – or fact that belies us. Own the reality that defines us. Trust the shit that maligns us. COVID my life that reprise us. Those Lucky for those that don the mask of joy… fleeting bliss, like gentle, golden fingers that caress the gray. Hellish for those that don the mask of grief… dreadful angst, like broken, blackened fingers that destroy the gray. Simple for those that don the mask of life… normal souls, like padded, awkward fingers that approach the gray. Helpful for those when gray paints the pain... what storm today dictates the mask I don? Forget the Thunder I don’t need it to be lightening for you. I need it to be real for you. Something you trust; something you wish to embrace. I don’t need it to be certain for you. I need it to be true for you. Something you welcome; something you wish to nurture. I don’t need it to be familiar for you. I just need it to be honest for you. Something you acknowledge; something you accept as new. This is your life now. I need you to live it; with me. Wednesday's Heart The package unwrapped fetches not a smile nor a surprise. It beats, seeping unexploited hope, no longer granted amity or support. Another cleaved seam flays the raw, splintered husk. It ambles, hunting unbridled oath, no longer able to capture and retain promise. In due course the stripped bark exposes a drought within. Yet to forgive the brother, to forfeit the pet, it duly fleshes the draining oneness. Woeful, doleful it renounces a necrotic, neurotic, psychotic, pathetic ache. Anguish replaces wonderment. A hollow fossil remains, awaiting the next slaughter, ossified by the assault.

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Top of Page Poems 2 poE Try ​ Other Minor Tragedies White Ash, White Trash Through a muddy lens of her glasses, Frances hues the future. Fruitless, joyless, hollow. What flavor is fruitless anyway? Bland; no froth, no fizz – nothing left fermenting, but Frances. What color is bland anyway? Arid; no juice, no essence – nothing left steeping, but Frances. Through the arid lens of her windshield, Frances chafes the wipers. Perfunctory, mechanical, dithering. What sound is perfunctory anyway? Silent; no song, no air – nothing left chanting, but Frances. What temperature is silent anyway? Bereaved; no mass, no anatomy – nothing left dissolving, but Frances. Through the bereft lens of her mind, Frances huffs the present. Insolvent, intractable, insufferable. What emotion is insolvent anyway? Empty; no poise, no possession – nothing left vacant, but Frances. What reality is empty anyway? A pile of ash, a heap of trash – nothing left white, but Frances. Fuck that: FIX IT FRANCES! Between Moons I retired to my bed with thoughts of speaking solely to one person…one person whom I would not reach tonight; the one person I missed the most – my favorite. How did his day go? Did his balance falter today? Did the devil visit his soul again? In lieu of a chat, I began penning this letter to him… …Now Frances watches the clock, wondering how on Earth it is almost seven a.m. She fights back a torrent of fears over losses and never-have-hads and never-will-haves. She strains to witness the narrative on this page through the sheet of water flooding her eyes. She considers the minutes just ahead of the coming dawn, the hours just after morning’s sunrise, the evaporating dew as noon approaches, the heft of afternoon’s returning humidity, the lowering of day giving way to the last fullness of the moon for another month. Will it storm today? Will her tank run dry, finally? Will she be able to grab the few moments of distraction over coffee? Will she grow the balls to ask for assistance? Will the “Peeps” have the same day they did yesterday? Will they ask her for guidance again? Will they take it? Will she reach her favorite? But… …Soon Toni will remind Frances that she will evanescently slumber; she will alight to the new sun as she routinely does. She will climb the slick, rickety, wooden steps of this coaster; gingerly forestalling a rogue ash from igniting the entire scaffold. She will lower the bar onto her lap to escape lobbing out of orbit. She will portion each lumbering click, tick, lurch of the impossibly timeless ascent. She will clutch each measured breath for the infinitely, endless perch topside. She will purview the landscape below her loft and scan each direction preceding the impending drop. A sense of dread and joy will surge in her gullet as her body dives through space, splintering an epoch’s meter. The plummet will survive but a chilling instant; her furtive mind will steal this moment to buttress the next rise and fall. She will marshal the cycle until it is time to step off the ride, and then... …She will inhale precariously to calm the incessant beating of a sorrow-laden heart. Ruefully, she will welcome a cloak to shadow the day’s revolutions. Before sedating the pain, she will Rush her ears to get inside his head… so they might lament the day’s lone and mutual tales… so she could wish him a more peaceful day, a more restful night, a more placid memory of the past, a more sanguine image of the future, a more fulfilled life. Dichromania Steel my eyes lapis Shade my brow gray Wash my cheeks ashen Rinse my leaden, epic grief. Blush my lips cerise Stipple my nose golden Tint my smile brilliant Render my buoyant, heroic bliss. My Grace The smell of dawn on my warm cheeks kissing my face, my nose, my lips; brings a meek smile to the new day. A wink off the pond greets my designs tentatively like a thousand, million diamonds draped over my collar. Not heavy, the stones cool the breath in my chest. The mellow wind slips behind my ears, spilling into my view onward; brings a mild grin to the new day. A wisp off the sky meets my fancies cautiously like a thousand, million wings draped over my shoulder. Not weighty, the lift slows the beating in my chest. The belle of night cradles my head, easing the ballet of my survival; brings a muted laugh to the new day. A wish off the moon delivers my dreams securely, like a thousand, million truths draped over my mind. Not shady, the gift deletes the burden in my chest. To lend this to your eyes would be my grace. Between Moons Dichromania My Grace Bottom of Page

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Top of Infographics InfoG Raphics ​ Freelance Works: Inquire at Contact ​ Click below to View a Sampler Bottom of Page Duncan

Top of Infographics InfoG Raphics ​ Freelance Works: Inquire at Contact ​ Click below to View a Sampler Bottom of Page Duncan