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School is a job. School is just pre-training for working for the Man. School is a job.Kids clock in at 3. They never clock out. Not even on social security. The Man reminds you who’s boss.Monthly check by monthly check.And like any check… Ya gotta work to keep it. Retirement’s a f*****g job, too. #ActuallyAutistic * If this excerpt grabbed you… more here: The Book: Frag by Frag. This is Fragment 11 of my upcoming autobiography, Autistic Noir, arriving Fall 2026. I’m building a book out loud. Frag by frag. Just like I lived it. The Next Act Don’t trust a corporate algorithm’s decision about whether you get to see the next excerpt or not. Join my Substack for free… and the next fragment comes straight to your inbox. And you get a free digital download of my complete poetry chapbook. * I’m writing an autobiography… out loud. Frag by frag. Just like I lived it. Unlock the next act for free. Why I Write My Autobiography I’m only an expert on my own life. Born 1953, diagnosed at 63. Your mileage will vary. Individual marginalized voices speaking truth out loud? They build bridges to mainstream readers. Think Malcolm X. Think Maya Angelou. Think Janet Mock’s Redefining Realness. This Fall, I hope to deliver that kind of impact, that power with Autistic Noir: My Autistic Life is My Art. For our neurodivergent community. Since 2019 I’ve published a quarter of a million words. Over half the size of the Lord of the Rings trilogy. Gotta be a pony somewhere in that shit. Click to get the next frag in your inbox… free. To support my work, 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

Cold open Welcome to the Treatment Funhouse… First room. Guy in a jumpsuit, “We gotta strap ya in.” He waves at a chair. “Safety,” he says in a bored voice. So you sit. You really want… something… different in your miserable life. [Brief music] Suddenly he snaps manacles on your wrists. Then behind you he grabs a blowtorch… [music] Intro This is AutisticAF Out Loud, Season 7, episode 1. Today, I find moments of joy… after some brutal ones. Like Leonard Cohen sang in Suzanne, “among the garbage and the flowers.” I’m Johnny Profane. Startled awake. Taking a new direction. And writing a neurodivergent autobiography… out loud. Content note: Mentions abuse, trauma, suicidality... and dark humor. Just one autistic elder’s voice. Raw. 3 fragments from my free archive, autisticaf.me… I’ll tell you more at the break. [music] Welcome to the Treatment Funhouse Being trapped in the medical model of autism for decades? Imagine an elaborate carnival funhouse… the kind that’s a maze. You gotta find your way out. But… This one’s got a horror theme. The sign outside… “23 Mirrored Rooms That Will Change Your Life… Forever!” Never saw that before. So you stand in the long wait line. That, naturally, doubles back on itself. Many times. Finally, you belly up to the barker’s ticket window. Start to scan the price board. “125 bucks?” You cry out. “You wanna change yer life, kid? Whatchya think it would cost?” So you sigh. You think… You need… different. You fork over. First room. Guy in a jumpsuit, “We gotta strap ya in.” He waves at the chair. “Safety,” he says in a bored voice. So you sit. You really want… well, something… different in your miserable life. Suddenly, he snaps manacles on your wrists. Then behind you, he grabs a blowtorch. You see this scene reflected in all the mirrors. In detail. Enhanced by all your grisly memories. You protest. “What the actual f**k.” “Trust me. This is the latest research. Sure as hell gonna change your life.” That smile. Thin. Cold. Professional. “We got paying customers outside. Lined up. Waiting to get inside. You in… or out.” You reflect on your miserable life. You nod. Then he slowly, methodically works you over. A light burn here. Another there. Starting at your feet. Working upwards. You scream. You cry. You plead. You evade. You bargain. Not a word out of Jumpsuit Guy. And… the only way you can block out the terror reflected in those mirrors? Close your eyes… He finishes. He unshackles you. Helps you up as you tremble. Guides you efficiently to the door. “Next room. Room of Knives. Yer gonna love it,” he laughs. “Just 22 to go.” Leans in… conspiratorially. Whispers in my ear… “Wait til the Meds room. Everybody talks about the Meds Room.” Beat. “If you make it there.” music Interlude Okay, then. A fun little… metaphor. Now… some dark reality. Family… and professionals… tossed off what I was going through in my late teens as “immaturity.” Something I’d age out of. Totally ignoring all the red danger flags of the coming disaster. Quick side note. Some folks wrote you couldn’t read articles. Multiple platform problems… demands you subscribe… pestering friends, even if they used a“free” link. I heard ya . So, I built my free personal archive at autisticaf.me. No paywall. No ads to piss ya off. All free & shareable… on me. You’ll find more pieces like this next one… there. — The Autistic Treatment Funhouse, Room of Exams They Called It Immaturity. They Missed Everything. Content note: This is the tough one I mentioned. With the brutal flowers. Look, first of all… This is not the beginning of a poor-me story. This is a story of how I found moments of joy… and darkness… in my autistic life. Like Leonard Cohen sang in Suzanne, “among the garbage and the flowers.” But I found dark humor... every where. 1972 was a hell of a summer… Room 1 I first sought a diagnosis at 19. Following suicide attempt #1. I was driving after dark. Which I wasn’t supposed to do… new family rule. See, I’d damaged our car the week before, making a hasty turn into our driveway near Jumping Deer Road in Katonah. Hit the damn stone wall on the way in. This was Westchester County, NY. Local code only allowed a nano break between the 18th-Century stones guarding our yard. Colonial heritage or something… masking slave labor. I’m in the doghouse. With parents already skeptical about letting me go to college. Not “mature” enough. Yet, when the hood and fender are finally fixed? They drop me off on a muggy, hazy June night. Out in the boonies at the old Amawak Service Center on Route 202. “Pick it up and bring it home. No side stops.” Then they instruct me, “Be… careful.” Rolling their collective 4 eyes. I pull out, then wait. The light’s gotta change at the 4-lane intersection with Route 35 before I can head home. The light turns green. I go into a weird space in my head. There’s… there’s some reason I shouldn’t turn left… yet… But I watch myself shrug, flick my signal switch, and turn. Right into two lanes of accelerating traffic coming right at me. Don’t remember much more. Just the red, don’t-turn-yet-idiot arrow. Staring at me brightly… through the windshield that used to be there. I survived. That classic, white 1965 Mustang… didn’t. Barely street legal, 271-horse V8 under the hood. Maybe the most collectible American car of all time. A hand-me-down gift to our family from my father’s father. Who bragged, “I had to jew the dealer down from 5 grand,” back when he bought it new in ’65. A lot of money then. Um, things got tense at home. “You are responsible for your own actions. You are the cause here.” Parental meeting time. “Uh, I don’t know what happened.” I couldn’t stand these “meetings.” So many in my childhood. This was maybe the worst of all. “I don’t know. It… it... just happened.” Making my parents even more furious. These were avid Ayn Rand readers. And my grandfather? He slept beside an orderly nightstand. Mein Kampf tucked tightly in its tidy drawer. My dead father’s voice echoes coldly in my mind still. “You are responsible for your own actions. You are the cause here.” But, I stumble on. Making things worse… in my way. “Something’s wrong. I don’t know what. I’m having horrible visions. Hitting people with the car as I drive by. Hitting their bodies… bones…” I trail off. Into stony silence, I say, “And now something weird happened. I think… I think… maybe I should see a doctor…” Next thing I know, I’m sitting in front of a Westchester County caseworker. Cuz my parents felt a psychologist or private therapist cost too much. I had no idea what I was feeling… much less why. The intake experience was horrific. I felt… badgered. She called it… delicately. “Maybe the accident looked like an attempt to… maybe… harm yourself?” But she continued with a sledgehammer. “I know you have a secret you want to tell me.” Rinse, repeat… Rinse, repeat… I wanted so badly to please her. But had no idea what I was feeling… much less why. Worse yet? There were things I didn’t want to tell her. Darker than the physical or sexual abuse she was probably check-listing. Things a traumatized kid might do… himself. I never went back. I told my parents I was uncomfortable talking to her. My dad rocked back in his dark, maple, Early American dining room chair. “Fine. That’s your choice.” He paused. Looking directly at my mother as he said to me, “I can see you won’t speak to this counselor. I see no reason to look for another for you to talk to. Your decision.” And that was that. We were all dying for freedom. Finally at 63, a psychologist specializing in autism gave me another name, Alexithymia. He said a lot of autistics can know something is wrong. But not know what. And baptized me, Autism Spectrum Disorder… with a side of ADHD. 2016 was a good year. A damn fine year. But 1972 was a summer from hell. The last US troops shipped home, fleeing Viet Nam. Palestinians massacred Israelis at the Olympics. My father died that August. The week after he molested me for the last time. We were all dying for freedom. [music] Cuz… if you don’t know us… how ya gonna love us. Interlude Okay. Here’s the last frag I toss… today. Let’s end with joyful moments. Among the dark. Let’s end with survival. See, I’m giving you these fragments of my life… Cuz… if you don’t know us… how ya gonna love us. And this is part of me, too… [music] I Don’t Think I Had a “Personality” as a Kid I was busy finding Infinity in a burnt-off ant leg… This one brings home the stakes. The moments of joy along the way… that drew a line under what could have been. Not if they fixed me. But maybe what all of our children could be. If we just listen to them. And support what they say they need. “What are you doing…?” My mother’s voice was sharp. I’m lying spreadeagled on the backyard grass, face down. “I’ve called you three times.” Annoyed. “WHAT are you doing…?” I don’t know it in Second Grade… But I have difficulties shifting attention when I’m lost in thought…I try to focus my ears…Then think back,review my short-term memory,and replay the last few moments.Trying to hear and translate anything she might have said while I’m in my private thought bubble… Already at 7, this process of “rehearsing” or “rewinding the tape” to interpret what’s going on? It’s an automatic, constant routine when I’m around… well, people. Checking for verbal mistakes, missed cues… Just trying to understand, what’s going on…? So I’m still trying to sort it out,choose words carefully to explain,clearing my throat,moving my sleeping tongue,loosening my jaw,getting ready to speak… “HEY! WHAT

I’m writing a memoir… out loud. Building a book. Fragment by fragment. Just like I lived it. I told a small, self-deprecating… white lie. To get out of committing to volunteering for a new project. My bad. You see? I had history with this person. Co-founder of an advocacy nonprofit. Small. Neurodivergency-affirming. Big ideas. Little organization. “I’m not sure I’m the right guy for your project. I just can’t seem to do something… this big… anymore.” I just want to gracefully bow out. Yet not hurt feelings. Or challenge them. I plow on gamely, “Maybe we can chat once in a while…?” “Sure you can! I know you can do it!” That zeal of a new convert to pop psychology. Rapid-fire words ricocheting out of my headset. “You just have imposter syndrome. I know. Because I do too! I have this book you could read…” I tried to be gentle. “My friend, I don’t have a syndrome of any kind. I’m just telling the truth. No need for diagnosis.” It went rapidly downhill from there. Let’s say, I felt immediate… unease. While we were talking. But I didn’t know why. Yet. But like a persistent smell neurodivergent-dot-me can never ignore… that feeling lingered. Building as I replay the conversation over and over. Then it takes days to recover. Before I can work on my projects again. Because what I experienced? Some label “benevolent ableism.” I call it soft-core discrimination. Trying to look like… kindness. I’ll never know their motivation. I won’t risk the pain of asking. You see? “Kind” words can do real damage. All you really gotta do to cause pain? Simply speak in the grammar of help… then act out the logic of condescension. That’s it. Some research supports this… catch-22. Patronizing support? It’s one of the most common, damaging, and invisible acts one human can perpetrate on another disabled human. That I know. Cuz it’s deniable. So at best, socially dangerous to challenge. A lot like an unwanted, ambiguous… intimate… gesture. From an acquaintance. And queasiness has only gotten worse for me with every ambiguous human interchange. The weapon and pain metaphors I use in the performance piece? Intentional. Cuz the escalation you may experience? These. Are. My. Reality. This ain’t about an additional diagnosis. Or a personality flaw. It is about me being autistic-as-f**k me. Yeah. I may be a tad more sensitive to condescension than the Average Bear. Just like I need sunglasses. Even on many cloudy days.Which ought to be actually advocated for. Not patronized. By an advocate. Or employer. Or loved one. Cuz this is not something I can self-help-guru my way out of. Or be trained to control through Cognitive Behavioral Therapy. Like I need one more thought to exhaustingly monitor. Monitoring that could never “cure” my sensory issue with smells. Or my freaking balance problems. Least of all my condescension trauma… So, the only guiding principle I must remember when I navigate social or professional waters… “I must honor my limits. Or they will disable me.” One last thing… I wrote this about my real experiences as an autistic professional. In a world unkind to difference. But my guess? Folks from any “disadvantaged” background may see themselves in it. Let’s build on that kinship. Maybe make a change. Together. Intro Content Note: Contains descriptions of everyday condescension… and opinions. That may resonate uncomfortably for autistic, neurodivergent, and… other people. The Cruelest Knife Leaves No Scar You never feel the cruelest knife Poison-tipped with a pat on the head A smugly… gentle… smile Words so softly, warmly… said. He only said… “You’re flourishing. Even with autism. Good on you.” Judgment is like napalm Dropped benignly… safely… from on high Burning invisibly… under my skin. She casually said… “You got imposter syndrome. I got this book…?” Or some radiant dirty bomb Parachuting slyly… tenderly… Silently melting my guts inside. The manual simply read… “Neurodivergents think outside the box. That makes them perfect… for certain tasks.” Leaving a foul smell in the air Mustard gas masquerading… Like piercing gas-station incense Labelled... blindingly, “Stay Calm.” Stealth Weapons of Mass Humiliation Or casual toxic caring Preening in plain sight Don’t breed even sullen gratitude Just resentment. Rebellion. Sometimes? The worship of tyrants. You never feel the cruelest knife No, Not right away. A slice so sharp it leaves no scar So weird… that instant shapes my life. * If this excerpt grabbed you… more here: The Book: Frag by Frag. This is Fragment 4 of my upcoming autobiography, My Autistic Life is My Art, arriving Fall 2026. I’m building a book out loud. Fragment by fragment. Just like I lived it. The Next Act Don’t trust a corporate algorithm’s decision about whether you get to see the next excerpt or not. Join my Substack for free… and the next fragment comes straight to your inbox. And you get a free digital download of my complete poetry chapbook. * Unlock the next act for free. Why I Write My Autobiography I’m only an expert on my own life. Born 1953, diagnosed at 63. Your mileage will vary. Individual minority voices speaking truth out loud? They build bridges to mainstream readers. Think Malcolm X. Think Maya Angelou, Think Janet Mock’s Redefining Realness. This Fall, I hope to deliver that kind of impact, that power with My Autistic Life is My Art. For our neurodivergent community. Since 2019 I’ve published a quarter of a million words. Over half the size of the Lord of the Rings trilogy. Gotta be a pony somewhere in that shit. Readings for Your Deeper Dive Not exhaustive. Just sources that made me think. Benevolent Ableism * “Consequences of Confronting Patronizing Help for People with Disabilities” Harvard Kennedy School Government and Applied Psychology Lab · January 2023https://gap.hks.harvard.edu/consequences-confronting-patronizing-help-people-disabilities-do-target-gender-and-disability-type * “Misguided Gestures of a Condescending Kindness” Radical Accessible Communities · July 2013https://radicalaccessiblecommunities.wordpress.com/2013/07/10/misguided-gestures-of-a-condescending-kindness/ Ableist Microaggressions * “Ableist Hostility Disguised as Friendliness” Real Social Skills · January 2016https://realsocialskills.org/2016/01/08/ableist-hostility-disguised-as-friendliness/ * “Ableist-Microaggressions Towards People with Disabilities” REDIS / CEDID · n.d.https://redis.cedid.es/index.php/redis/article/download/1161/568/ Discriminatory Gaslighting vs. Imposter Syndrome * “Imposter Syndrome, Or Something Else? Historian Talks Discriminatory Gaslighting” NPR · May 2021https://www.npr.org/2021/05/09/995172973/imposter-syndrome-or-something-else-historian-talks-discriminatory-gaslighting * “Imposter Syndrome in Neurodiversity” The Rowan Well · December 2024https://www.therowanwell.co.uk/blog/imposter-syndrome-in-neurodiversity Performative Allyship & Movement Co-optation * “Performative Neurodiversity – the Appropriation and Watering Down of a Human Rights Movement for Profit” Therapist Neurodiversity Collective · May 2024https://therapistndc.org/performative-neurodiversity-the-appropriation-and-watering-down-of-a-human-rights-movement-for-profit/ * “Performative Allyship Within Capitalist Systems” Neurodiverging · January 2024https://www.neurodiverging.com/performative-allyship-within-capitalist-systems/ Autistic Identity, Masking & Ableism (Research) * “Understanding Autistic Identity Contingencies” PubMed Central · December 2025https://pmc.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/articles/PMC12804416/ * “The Division Between Neurodiversity Advocates and The Rest of the World” Neuroclastic · January 2026https://neuroclastic.com/nd-nt/ Counterpoint / Complicating Perspectives * “Make Neurodiversity Boring” Boston Review · June 2025https://www.bostonreview.net/forum/the-future-of-neurodiversity/make-neurodiversity-boring/ * “The Definitional Problems at the Heart of the Neurodiversity Movement” STAT News · November 2025https://www.statnews.com/2025/11/24/neurodiversity-movement-neurotypical-definitional-problems/ Weapon Metaphor & Language (Supporting Context) * “The Metaphor as Weapon” Harvard Political Review · February 2015https://harvardpolitics.com/metaphor-weapon/ * “Weaponizing Words: War Metaphors and Public…” UIN Malang e-Journal · June 2025https://ejournal.uin-malang.ac.id/index.php/humbud/article/view/32376 Connect: * Drop a comment… How do you experience… condescension? * How have you answered it? * Hit the “subscribe” box for new releases 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

A comet, a cult, an ice storm, a family dinner... and a disastrous drinking game. Winter, 1997-98. One autistic elder's truth about faith, control, and what it costs to survive your own family. ⚠️ Content note: offensive language, substance use, religious criticism, mental health themes, cult references. Strong feelings. A very personal truth you may not share. This is a hybrid spoken word piece — poem, film, mini-series. Scenes. Jump cuts. Background music. A Prelude in Northern New York, December 1997, as the Hale-Bopp comet fades from the sky and the thirty-nine bodies in matching Nikes of the Heaven's Gate cult are still fresh in the national mind.A Dinner, where my mother gathers reports from her children, one by one, while I sip vodka. Neat.A Card Game during the Ice Storm of '98 — cooped-up family, three days, no power, liquor, and a rule: ya gotta drink.And a Cadenza for the End of Time. Where I finally ask the question I couldn't ask as a kid.I'm Johnny Profane Âû. Autistic poet and spoken word performer, diagnosed at 63. Now in my 70s. I've been making work that refuses to be packaged since 2019.This piece is from my chapbook: every clock is a handgun pointed at my head: songs of autistic innocence...and experience. Available on Amazon — link below. 📖 Get the chapbook: [AMAZON LINK]📬 Full text + newsletter: [SUBSTACK LINK]🔔 Hit the bell. New pieces drop when they're ready.💬 Drop a comment: How complex was your family history as a neurodivergent person? What refuges did you find? Chapters 0:10 — Cold Open0:21 — Content Note0:45 — Intro1:58 — Prelude / Establishing Shot3:55 — Dinner Music / Point-of-View Shot7:39 — Interlude / Flash Cut9:53 — Cadenza for the End of Time / Extreme Wide Panning Shot11:20 — Outro / Parting Shot #ActuallyAutistic #SpokenWord #ReligiousTrauma #AutisticPoetry #LateAutismDiagnosis #AutisticElders #HeavensGate #AutismAcceptance #NeurodivergentPoetry #AutisticAF 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

Still driven to matter. Desperately. Almost 73. And I can’t unwind… busted springs, broken dancer in a jewel box. This piece isn’t an answer. It’s an accusation. And underneath? A terrified question I can’t stop asking. Is listening more your thing? Hit the play icon ▶️ on the player above. Or pick your app: Apple, Spotify, Overcast, YouTube. {Music} Intro You're listening to AutisticAF Out Loud. One voice. Raw. Real. Fiercely Neurodivergent. One autistic elder’s truth. I’m Johnny Profane. Content Note: language, psych ward experiences, childhood sexual & emotional abuse, intergenerational family harm + opinions & experiences of one autistic elder. It’s everywhere. Every where I go anyways. I’m chatting with this young professional couple ahead of me in a line. Maybe, grad students…? This long, Walmart self-checkout is just brimming with fresh faces this August. There’s an awkward break… like always in these in-line chats. Like we’re para-neighbors or something. So… I’ve gotten used to a little stimming while I wait. In the silence, I arch my back backwards then I drop my head toward the floor… Breathe out, relax, straighten up, and… They’re staring. Four eyes blinking through glasses. Two mouths open. I… I… think a moment. Running through possible causes for those gawking faces. Then, I get it. “Oh… Oh that.” I slip into my little canned moment. “Ya see, I’m autistic. I know. I don’t look like autistic. I’m old.” [Chuckle.] “But if I say… or do something… that seems, well, odd? Just let me know.” You could see it instantly. I went from bizarre, possibly fiercesome alien to… cute, harmless, possibly lovable, old oddball. A blink or two… from each. The guy, in the designer hoodie, waves back and forth between himself and the young woman. “Oh, we get it.” A bit more waving. “We love ‘Love on the Spectrum.’ Never miss it.” To my credit, I manage a… thin smile, with a little mock hand-waving and a quiet, “Yeah, doggie.” Shortly, they leave the store, waving back at me. And I wave back. It’s more like they have a cute para-social crush on an idea… of autism. But I’m thinking… That show… and that couple’s genuine attempt to connect? They’re something… for now. I guess… But I’ve been obsessing about stereotypes lately. Like everybody suddenly knows the real me cuz they read an article on Thinking Person’s Guide to Autism… TV viewers? None of them know me. It’s more like they have a cute para-social crush on an idea… of autism. I try to bear in mind I may be going through a phase ... [laffs] But… I am autistic + ADHD here. Turning 73, come June. I want you to know this reality… my personal reality. But shared by too many other neurodivergents. I’ll never know what it means to grow up withoutsensory, physical, emotional, and sexual trauma from…family, teachers, playmates, care-taking professionals,the occasional stranger. I’ll never know a life without repeated psych ward stays. So… it just may not be autism that blocks my dreams… Ya know? Just stick a pin in that thought for a moment. We’ll circle back, after a bit… after I speak my piece… “What… would I be… then…?” Like most humans, I grapple with dreams… I will never realize in this life... nearing its end. Dreams that wind my clock. The biggest? The gut-wrenching need to matter... Less noble? My yearning for fame & recognition. I fear letting that dream go. Cuz what… would I be… then...? This piece isn’t an answer. It’s an accusation. And I can guaran-damn-tee you it’ll never stream on Netflix. I call it… LETTING GO Being born left its markThat’s how I came to fear the dark... Far back as i know I fear letting goAlways scouting for that shortcutI fear letting goCareening towards god knows whatFearing letting goDark lightning in my gutFrom fear of letting go Letting goLetting goGod i need To let go… Everybody knowsI need to let go. All life longDrempt damned dreams The kind that get you reborn,To be big, to be… known.As this long life, this dream… endsI fear letting goCuz what would I… be… then? Been saying latelyGot to unwind… Twist. Got the heart… not the chopsI got to unwindUnwind… Twist. Need a dream detoxGot to unwind Un Wind… Twist. Click… Busted springs andBroken dancer in a jewel box. Good gawd almightyI gots to unwind. Sleepwalking in the moist dark nightA toddler memory, I feared a lightShadowed crack under mommy’s doorGroans, cries, sighs… moreThen...Turning a knob on forbidden sightDaddy’s rage, a parasiteCrawling… gnawing my insides That night I first feared the light. Black thunder in a winter stormI fear the trembling light Mantra falling in a mind at warTerrified of that lightFear that light Fear that light I fear that lightMore than psych ward nightI fear that blinding light Being born left its markThat’s how I came to fear the dark... But waking, startled, late in lifeI came to cower… at the light. Ok. What I feel… what I experience inside? Or what other autistic adults may feel? It ain’t something you’ll ever binge on Netflix. No camera films what’s inside us. So, unpin that thought I asked you to save… about blocked dreams. Let’s just circle back. It ain’t autism. Or ADHD. Or any other neurological difference that blocks our dreams. Even those that are so different from yours. I don’t believe ANY of this 7 decades of trauma…familial disappointment…social judgment…failure… pain… Had anything to do with my own inborn genetics... nature... Or Mommy’s f*****g Tylenol. But, and… here’s the hope,the meaning,the good part… Based on the joyful thingsI could say,did do,did experience,do share…even against all the barriers human culture has ever erectedFor me… for all neurodivergents… I can not imagine the joy thatfuture neurodivergent kids could have a shot at... If “They” stop trying to “cure” our natural behaviors that annoy... or frighten… only “Them.” And start supporting the natures and gifts we do possess. From the moment we come naked into this world. I can NOT imagine what our kids could say, do, experience… in that future world. Thank you so much for giving me your time, my friends. And the space to sputter my rage into. {Music} CHAPTERS: 0:00 — Cold Open0:27 — Intro / Content Note0:57 — It’s Everywhere5:16 — Letting Go (poem)8:19 — Ok. What I feel… what I experience inside?9:21 — But, and… Here’s the good part10:31 — Thank you so much for giving me your time More Spoken Word: I share more pieces like this at AutisticAF Out Loud on Substack Get the Chapbook: every clock is a handgun pointed at my head, art, poetry, and raw neurodivergent truth. Thirteen pieces. One autistic life, unfiltered. Available on Amazon Subscribe to AutisticAF Out Loud... free or paid... and get the full PDF in your inbox. On me. One-time support for my work here: · Paypal · Facebook Pay “Johnny Knapp Âû”· Ko-Fi About This Work: Johnny (Knapp) Profane Âû spoke at the UN World Autism Acceptance Day in 2022 about his illustrations rooted in neurodivergence. Published in Wordgathering (journal of disability poetry & literature), Neuroclastic, and Thinking Person’s Guide to Autism. In a former life, founding publisher of Unix World magazine. Living in rural Indiana in a trailer across the courtyard from his wife. With his 2 dogs, cat, and an unwavering commitment to raising hell, autistic style.​ #ActuallyAutistic #SpokenWord #DisabilityPoetry #NeurodivergentArt #AuDHD #MentalHealthAwareness #AutisticAF #AutisticElder #LateAutismDiagnosis Connect: * Drop a comment — Do you experience barriers to realize your dreams? Do you rush from goal to goal… fearing letting go? Do you find meaningful accommodation for your differences in your job or career ? * Hit the “follow” bell for new releases Thanks for reading #AutisticAF Out Loud Newsletter! Algorithms are not kind to neurodivergent voices. If this hit home? Please share to get the word out. 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

Note to long-time subscribers: You’re seeing this one again cuz I’ve given the original video a serious makeover. Then tucked it into a small archive of live spoken word pieces, for the newer folks these raw pieces brought to our strange little corner of the internet. _____ Someone wrote me: “These knocked me sideways… I spent so much time as an undiagnosed autistic girl, wondering if I was the alien dropped among the normies.” I can’t see faces. When I try to remember someone… even my wife… I see a shifting, indistinct swirl of features. This piece,” “A Swirl of Flesh-Colored Fog,” is about wanting to be friends. Struggling with that simple human desire… when your brain doesn’t work the way the world expects. No clinical terms. No inspiration porn. What it’s like. I don’t need diagnosed. I need appreciated for who I am. Yeah, I know the diagnostic term. Prosopagnosia. Let’s just say I’m not into masking behind tongue-twisting gig latin. Or symptom lists… that are stereotypes, in the end. Imagine my brief career as a salesman. Now… imagine a couple of lost marriages. I don’t need diagnosed. I need appreciated for who I am. How about you? Content Note: opinions & experiences of one autistic elder. Full Text Transcript. Friends? Finally late in life, I got friends… and love. And this last one is a selfie of what that’s like for me. I call it… A Swirl of Flesh-Colored Fog “Ya gotta minute?” She takes a quick scan of the aisles. Then toward the eternal sale table near the entrance. Pink and blue signs promising, “Two… If you buy just one…” It’s silent. Just me standing in front of her. Bottle of the Coke Zero I’m addicted to in my hand. Dusk. Rural Indiana. I guess the local beef cattlemen, horsey folks, and military munitions testers up at Crane Naval Base? They don’t hit Dollar General so much around sundown. “Sure,” she says. “Nobody much comes in around now. Z’up… you good?” I take a beat. To use my words… to find my words. “I’m trying to remember all you guys’… um, ya know, everybody’s names….” “Oh, no worries. You’re good. We really all should have name badges.” I take another beat. To switch appropriate gears. “No. You know. The autism thing. I have this face and name thing. It’s weird… but I can’t remember faces.” Awkward… awkward pause. If you’re listening to this, if you’re reading… Let me try to take you inside. My being… What’s that like? I only see… Well, words fail me. Take a visit to Walmart. Just a sea of faceless ghosts. Folks I greet, “I… I kn-know you… I have this thing. Can you tell me your name again?” Embarrassment. Stammering apologies… See, it’s like this… A swirl of flesh-colored fogThat’s my wife’s face in dreamsI only see her walking awayA grey ponytail… tattered jeans Love of my life… can’t see her…Not her green eyes… in stage makeup…Just homemade tats… the shape of her hair…Feelings,memories…talking after that breakup… So, I’m back talking to that DG clerk. “We don’t get out much. You guys? I… I guess it’s a job. But to us? You’re… well, friends. It means something to me. To learn your name. To… know you.” It means something to me. To remember your names. And… faces. “Oh.” Confused, she pauses. “It’s really ok. We know you and your wife. We get it.” “You know?” I’m urgent. I want her to get… I want her to get the weight of it. “It’s not for you. It’s for me. It means something to me. To remember your names. And… and put them with your faces. To be… friends.” I flash on all those parental commands to, “Make friends!” Then I say, “I just won’t get it right… right away. But I want to enjoy… doing it.” Silence. Awkward. But intimate. I stammer. “Are you… are you, uh, Ari?” When confused, my go-to fallback is details. “No, no, she’s the… she’s the short blond one.” She waves her right hand about shoulder high. “I know Kensington… cuz well I walked in on her anaphylactic…. Ya know, allergy attack. Over in the Dollar Aisle.” “Yeah. She’s the short one with black hair.” She gestures with her right hand again, just a hair lower. “And… and I’m Cyndi.” We laugh. Together. She mentions the name tags again. I make reassuring noises. “That’s Windy, right?” “No.” She laughs. “Cyndi… Just with the I and Y… reversed.” “Oh, thank god. For a moment I misremembered again. Thought you were named after that sappy 60s song.” She laughs, easy… again. “No, never that.” We share a wink. A nod. The doors slide… I walk outside. Cyndi. Just with the I and the Y… reversed. A swirl of flesh-colored fog. Framed by glasses. And twisted brown hair up on her head. About… yay… tall. CHAPTERS: 0:00 — Friends? Finally late in life…0:23 — Dollar General, sundown1:54 — Let me take you inside2:32 — “A Swirl of Flesh-Colored Fog”5:35 — About… yay… tall More Spoken Word: I share more pieces like this at AutisticAF Out Loud on Substack:https://johnnyprofaneknapp.substack.com/p/spoken-word-poetry Get the Chapbook: every clock is a handgun pointed at my head, art and poetry collection available on Amazon:https://www.amazon.com/every-clock-handgun-pointed-head-ebook/dp/B0FNLHC6SY Subscribers… free or paid… receive a free PDF of this neurodivergent art & poetry collection by email. About This Work: Johnny (Knapp) Profane Âû spoke at the UN World Autism Acceptance Day in 2022 about his illustrations rooted in neurodivergence. Published in Wordgathering (journal of disability poetry & literature), Neuroclastic, and Thinking Person’s Guide to Autism. In a former life, founding publisher of Unix World magazine. Living in rural Indiana in a trailer across the courtyard from his wife. With his 2 dogs, cat, and an unwavering commitment to raising hell, autistic style.​ #SpokenWord #ActuallyAutistic #DisabilityPoetry #NeurodivergentArt #MentalHealthAwareness Connect: * Drop a comment — Do you struggle to remember faces? Or yearn for connection your brain won’t let you have? * Hit the “follow” bell for new releases 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

If you’re drawn to the raw experience born of neurodivergence, disability, trauma… or just honest storytelling that doesn’t sanitize the hard parts… Maybe this one’s for you. With full transcript, video, original artwork. Family leaves marks on you. Some visible, some not. Hell, just breathing-while-autistic… in the adult world… does a number. “Couldn’t you at least make it, Profano?” says my wife-to-be. Adding, “Who wants to be called ‘Profane??’” Conversations about changing my last name… I mean, who knew it was supposed to be a “couples conversation”? Not this smartass, but-naive-as-hell, 58-year-old autist. Not sitting on someone else’s couch. That we happen to be surfing in a backwoods Greene County, Indiana cabin. Um. I guess, my bad. But…I was busy reeling from losing my fourth or fifth career, estrangement from my family of origin, a forced 700-mile relocation… by bus… to Indiana,my new relationship with my future wife and family,joblessness, and homelessness…in under 6 months. And I never did the whole unspoken-rule thing well. Ya know, auDHD? So really not on my best game that day. I’m not ashamed. I’m not broken… “I gotta make a br-break,” I start sputtering. “They’ll tell themselves stories. They’ll make up shit. M-Make me a demon.” “They?” Her eyebrow arches. The eyebrow that raised 7 kids. This is 2011. I don’t have enough words in that moment to tell her who “they” are. Pretty much every relationship, teacher, job, and cause I’d walked out of. In my already long, getting-longer-fast life. “I’m not ashamed. I’m not broken. I don’t have a f*****g clue where I’m headed. But this is who I am. I gotta own… my self.” I kinda hear myself say that. Out loud. Catches me up short. Then, after a thoughtful beat, I mutter, “Right in their faces.” My wife has a bit to say. About changing her name to “Profane.” I have a bit too much to say in my dig-in-my-heels response. We had some wild moments back then… After a few months, I went the stagename route, Johnny Profane. Kept the potential marriage alive through compromise. But still managed to keep the “in their faces” intact. Cuz family… and the life after… leave marks on you. Some visible. Some not. I choose to wear them in plain sight… Shamelessly. I choose to wear them in plain sight…Shamelessly. This piece is what it means to me to live without apology. I got some things right, got some things wrong. And somehow kept stumbling forward anyways.​ This piece draws from real moments… scaling Mount Marcy the night Elvis died in 1977,leaving family behind 34 years later, complicated relationships that never quite resolve. I was finally diagnosed autistic at 63. It’s been almost 10 years. So I wrote this. Full Text Transcript. So I call this one, Shameless. Watch the 3+ minute performance (headphones recommended): Content Note: language, family estrangement, ableism, trauma, homelessness + opinions & experiences of one autistic elder. Shameless Live long enoughYa get a lot right,Get a lot wrong.Get to knowWell enoughYa can’t be a saintLurking in shadow…Living life perfectlyShameless. Shameless?Oh let me beShameless…No sun setsOn a painless life,So no moon shinesOn a stainless wife.Oh let me be… comeShameless. Scaling Mount MarcyThat night as Elvis died,Got branded a MountebankAs my sister grew colder. Stalking Death ValleySame sister… now dead… to meSame stars… chill my shouldersNow living life perfectlyShameless… Shameless.Oh let me beShameless…No peak capsAn aimless life,And no grave ever filledBy a blameless knife.Oh let me be… comeShameless. No mask hidesThe pain in life,So no words canExplain my fight.So, let me Be… come…Shameless. Fadeout I hate it. I love that one… That’s the whole thing, isn’t it. Living with both at once. CHAPTERS: 0:00 — Introduction0:11 — Shameless (the poem begins) MORE SPOKEN WORD: I share more pieces like this at AutisticAF Out Loud on Substack: https://johnnyprofaneknapp.substack.com/p/spoken-word-poetry GET THE CHAPBOOK: “every clock is a handgun pointed at my head” — art and poetry collection available on Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/every-clock-handgun-pointed-head-ebook/dp/B0FNLHC6SY ABOUT THIS WORK Johnny (Knapp) Profane Âû spoke at the UN World Autism Acceptance Day in 2022 about his illustrations rooted in neurodivergence. Published in Wordgathering (journal of disability poetry & literature), Neuroclastic, and Thinking Person’s Guide to Autism. In a former life, founding publisher of Unix World magazine. Living in rural Indiana in a trailer across the courtyard from his wife. With his 2 dogs, cat, and an unwavering commitment to raising hell, autistic style.​ #SpokenWord #DisabilityPoetry #AutisticPoet #NeurodivergentArt #FamilyTrauma #AutisticAF #PoetryPerformance #MentalHealthAwareness #ActuallyAutistic #RawPoetry Connect: * Drop a comment — What does family life look like for you? * Hit the “follow” bell for new releases #AutisticAF Out Loud Newsletter is a reader-supported publication. Click for a free subscription to receive new posts… and a free PDF of my Amazon chapbook of poetry. To support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. Support AutisticAF.me here: Paypal · Ko-Fi · Facebook Pay “Johnny Knapp Âû” https://ko-fi.com/autisticaf 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

Intro Someone said an average writer “borrows.” The other kinds, both kinds... steal out right. Bowie, Robert Johnson, Marvin Gaye. I owe you guys one for this. Believe I’ll Ch-Ch-Change… My Shirt. Sunlight cracks my window, Gotta be midday. Kick myself a pathway Just 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 f*****g old.” They say, “Shed that old skin For one of truest gold…” I. Gotta. Change. Believe I’ll ch-ch-change My… 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 tomb But I can’t leave her behind... Memories of the darkest kind Blind 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-change My… Shirt. Break it down… I believe, I believe, I’ll go back home. I believe, I believe, I’ll go back home. You can't mistreat me here, babe, But you can 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 f*****g older. I yearn to shed that old skin I crave that shiny gold… I. Gotta. Change. Believe I’ll ch-ch-change My… Shirt. Man I feel the drama today. Hope you guys can handle it. Massive shoutout to artists I stole quotes from… David Jones, known to the world as David Bowie for “Changes,” that he released in 1972. And to blues genius Robert Johnson for “Dust My Broom,” released in 1937. And as always to Marvin Gaye, for his soul… invisible but always there. * More Live Autistic Spoken Word Bio Johnny (Knapp) Profane Âû is an auDHD spoken word poet, blogger, podcaster… sometime cosplaying Pretend Rock Star. Diagnosed autistic at 63, he’s published AutisticAF Out Loud since 2019… a raw, fiercely neurodivergent voice. His spoken word piece, “every clock is a handgun pointed at my head,” appeared in Wordgathering, a journal of disability poetry & literature. In 2022, he spoke at the UN World Autism Acceptance Day on his illustrations rooted in neurodivergence. Neuroclastic, Thinking Person’s Guide to Autism, and other sites have featured his work since 2019. In an earlier life, he was founding publisher of Unix World magazine in 1984. Johnny lives in a rural Indiana trailer… next to his wife’s trailer… with his dogs & cat. Occasionally he shaves… to face Walmart. “I’m autistic. Born 1953.I was not a product of a vaccine.I was not born to be pitied.I was born to raise Hell.Autistic style.I’m not out to inspire you.I’m out to give youan experience..of a life.” “every clock is a handgun pointed at my head,” art & poetry collection. available on Amazon. Connect: * Share your burnout experiences below * Hit the bell for new releases #AutisticAF Out Loud Newsletter is a reader-supported publication. Click below to receive new posts & free PDF of full Amazon collection… free. To support my work, 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

Full Spoken Word Transcript My time, it can’t be measured. Not a dimension. It’s a force. A violent force. every clock is a handgun pointed at my head III Every clock is a handgun pointed at my headEvery tick, tick… f*****g 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… undone. 10, 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 escape II Woods Deep woods Deepest woods My ears flyfrom bird songto bird song. A raptor circles then spiralsCrossing lines now dead Wind steals my breathTaking words never said This skin bag of atmosphereBreathes new air When the sun risesFirst it is coolThen it gets warmThe day passes Clouds above my head.Shaped by wind Outside my bodyThe same wind Inside my bodyThesameWind Yet… I 10, 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 head zero * More Live Autistic Spoken Word Bio Johnny (Knapp) Profane Âû is an auDHD spoken word poet, blogger, podcaster… sometime cosplaying Pretend Rock Star. Diagnosed autistic at 63, he’s published AutisticAF Out Loud since 2019… a raw, fiercely neurodivergent voice. His spoken word piece, “every clock is a handgun pointed at my head,” appeared in Wordgathering, a journal of disability poetry & literature. In 2022, he spoke at the UN World Autism Acceptance Day on his illustrations rooted in neurodivergence. Neuroclastic, Thinking Person’s Guide to Autism, and other sites have featured his work since 2019. In an earlier life, he was founding publisher of Unix World magazine in 1984. Johnny lives in a rural Indiana trailer… next to his wife’s trailer… with his dogs & cat. Occasionally he shaves… to face Walmart. “I’m autistic. Born 1953.I was not a product of a vaccine.I was not born to be pitied.I was born to raise Hell.Autistic style.I’m not out to inspire you.I’m out to give youan experience..of a life.” “every clock is a handgun pointed at my head,” art & poetry collection. available on Amazon. Connect: * Share your time anxiety experiences below * Hit the bell for new releases #AutisticAF Out Loud Newsletter is a reader-supported publication. Click below to receive new posts & free PDF of full Amazon collection… free. To support my work, 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

Intro 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. {Silence} Is listening more your thing? Hit the headphone icon 🎧 on the player at top. Or pick your app: Apple, Spotify, Overcast, YouTube. Content Note: This piece addresses troubling family history and inherited complexity. I call this one… Slouching Toward Montauk ... 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… this fabulous moment here More autistic spoken word: If this resonated for you, I share more pieces like this on AutisticAF Out Loud. Connect: * Drop a comment… How complex was your family history for you as a neurodivergent? * What refuges did you find? * Hit the “follow” bell for new releases Get the Chapbook: every clock is a handgun pointed at my head, art, poetry, and raw neurodivergent truth. Thirteen pieces. One autistic life, unfiltered. Available on Amazon Subscribe to AutisticAF Out Loud… free or paid… and get the full PDF in your inbox. On me. #AutisticAF Out Loud Newsletter: One Voice. Raw. Real. Fiercely Autistic. Subscribe free to receive new autistic spoken‑word & essays… and instantly get my “thank you” gift: a free PDF of my poetry & art chapbook, every clock is a handgun pointed at my head Thanks for reading #AutisticAF Out Loud Newsletter! The algorithm hates me. I must be doing something right… so feel free to share it. I’m an autistic poet and spoken word performer, diagnosed at 63. Now in my 70s. I’ve been publishing AutisticAF Out Loud since 2019… work that refuses to be packaged. My spoken word piece , every clock is a handgun pointed at my head, was published in Wordgathering, a journal of disability poetry & literature. In 2022, I spoke at the UN World Autism Acceptance Day about my illustration work rooted in autism & ADHD. I live in a rural Indiana trailer… across the courtyard from my wife’s trailer… with my 2 dogs & cat. Occasionally I shave… to face Walmart. The algorithms hate me. I must be doing something right. #SpokenWord #AutismAcceptance #AutisticPoetry #Mindfulness #AutisticAF Out Loud Newsletter is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts free, click the link below. To support my work, consider becoming a paid subscriber. Support AutisticAF.me with a one-time tip here: · Paypal · Ko-Fi · Facebook Pay “Johnny Knapp Âû” 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

Friends, Grief & Autism…? They say we have no feelings… They say autistics don't have emotions. Don't make friends.  Clue, I ain't Spock. This is "My Friend Billy." A spoken word piece about grief, friendship, and what they never tell you about our autistic hearts. From my Amazon chapbook "every clock is a handgun pointed at my head." 3 minutes that blast the myth that autistic people lack emotional depth… wide open. Billy died in a polar vortex. Alone in his home. Local newspaper may have blandly read, “A Politician Lies…Local Man Dies.”  But he never left my autistic mind. Still laffs in my autistic heart. Teaching it how to praise. 👉 Chapbook (paperback & Kindle): https://www.amazon.com/every-clock-handgun-pointed-head-ebook/dp/B0FNLHC6SY 👉 Full text + free newsletter: https://johnnyprofaneknapp.substack.com/ 👉 New here? Living Autistic Truth playlist: https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PL_812RrZO_QWB-WHVZRBe-hjr37UNPxdb — Chapters 00:07 Intro: They say we have no feelings00:21 65, going on death, woke…01:14 A politician lies… local man dies01:30 Billy . . . I wish I were that poet01:52 Laffing . . .  How he outraced cops02:29 missed him… for an hour — From a live subscriber stream. Original visual art by author throughout. Digital tools include AI. Hand sketches: grave marker, closing abstract image “Bardo #1.” — #ActuallyAutistic #SpokenWord #AutisticPoetry #Neurodivergent #Grief #Friendship #AutisticJoy #DisabilityPoetry Johnny Profane Âû | Born 1953 | Not here to inspire you — here to give you an experience of a life. Stay weird. Stay fierce. Stay alive. We got this. 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

Where does my autistic rage come from? Not from being born wrong. From being raised, schooled, mocked, trained, therapped, and medicated into it. This is about the source. The ones who created what they blamed us for. No apologies, no redemption arc—just the accusation. Content note: Strong language, family trauma, discussion of rage & medical consequences of the rage they told us to keep inside + the experiences & opinions of one autistic elder. Born in 1953. 👉 Gift Season: “every clock is a handgun pointed at my head”https://a.co/d/3e0Uc7i Raw spoken word & art exploring autistic experience without the inspiration porn. Perfect for: * Your autistic or ADHD someone (the gift of being seen) * That someone who isn’t... and wants connection (the gift of understanding) 👉 Get the chapbook, “every clock is a handgun pointed at my head”: https://a.co/d/3e0Uc7i👉 Full text & community: https://substack.com/@johnnyprofane1👉 Live Autistic Truth playlist: 25 live performances of autistic spoken word Chapters:0:11 Intro: Where Autistic Rage Comes From1:05 I Wasn’t Born this Way1:19 F#&% that Noize1:23 The Nightmare Was You1:41 Being Me around… You1:57 So Many Yous2:07 I Blame You3:11 “every clock is a handgun pointed at my head” chapbooRecorded live, November 2025. Minimal production—raw delivery, authentic processing. This piece discusses: Autistic burnout and rage, family trauma and estrangement, school trauma, workplace discrimination, forced masking consequences, neurodivergent anger, medical consequences of chronic stress (including stroke), unmasking and living authentically. #ActuallyAutistic #AutisticRage #FamilyTrauma #SchoolTrauma #Neurodivergent #AutismBurnout #SpokenWord #NeurodivergentVoices #AutisticAF #Unmasking AutisticAF Out Loud Not here to inspire you. Here to give you an experience of a life.Born to raise hell. Autistic style. Transcript: Family, school, work...? They created this autistic badass. I wasn’t born under a star named Rage. I’m going to read something. It’s a little bit on the, uh... I don’t know, testy side? And it’s a work in progress. No inspiring ending... yet. Maybe never. Because sometimes there isn’t one. This is about where autistic rage comes from. I’m not ashamed of it. Any more than I’m ashamed of my autistic joy. This is me. It’s why being targeted first isn’t just political. It’s, uh... it’s personal, real personal. It’s a lifetime of being told, I’m the problem. We’re the problem. You’re the problem. And then watching them try to starve us... for political points. I call this... “I Wasn’t Born under a Star named Rage.” I think you get where... you see where I’m headed. I drempt I was on a journey And Charles Bukowski was my guide Like Virgil, Dante… but in a hurry A modern pace for a modern time... f**k that noize I had a screaming nightmare last night and it was you yeah it was a hellscape being around you watching my step around you holding my tongue around you Cringing around you being… me around you I wasn’t born under a star named Rage. No. You raised me You schooled me You mocked me You groped me… so many yous You trained me You therapped me You medicated me I blame you Right or wrong In my blinding, Stroke-at-age-30, repressed… rage I blame you. That’s it. There’ll be more. Maybe there’ll be a redeeming ending. Maybe not. That’s where I’m at. That’s the fuel. You don’t have to relate to every line. And of course, there’s nobody in this audience who’s a “you.” I think you know who “they” are. But if you’ve got rage too, you got my permission to express it. Because you’re not alone in it. Okay. I need to get off and go sleep for a few hours. It’s amazing how I work up for these things. And they can be... difficult for me. I’m so pleased you showed up. I’m so pleased you listen to me sometimes. I’ll talk to you soon. * More Live Autistic Spoken Word #AutisticAF Out Loud Newsletter is a reader-supported publication. Click to receive new posts and a free subscription. To support my work, consider choosing a paid subscription. 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

A father’s reflection on parental regret, missed connections, and what it means to forget the life you didn’t live. Raw spoken word + visual art. No hidden meanings. No inspiration. Just what it’s like 👉More poetry: “Live Autistic Truth” playlist (link below) 👉 Full collection: “every clock is a handgun pointed at my head” (link below) 👉 Transcript: Link in comments Content note: Parental regret. Family estrangement. Unfiltered autistic experience. This piece explores the strange way autism and ADHD collapse time. How life-defining choices can feel as forgettable as a radio contest you meant to call. How parental regret sits next to everyday absurdity. How half flying and half falling can be the same motion. Not here to inspire you. Here to give you an experience of a life. CHAPTERS 0:00 - Like some angel with a dislocated shoulder0:15 - Half flying, half falling from the day I was born 0:45 - To a silent piano score... a horror picture show1:05 - Don’t be a dick. Real talk.1:25 - That call-in contest you just knew you could win1:35 - Hell, like this song. ————— MORE FROM THIS COLLECTION 👉 Full chapbook: “every clock is a handgun pointed at my head: songs of autistic innocence...and experience” Amazon: hhttps://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PL_812RrZO_QWB-WHVZRBe-hjr37UNPxdb 👉 “Live Autistic Truth” playlist (13 spoken word pieces - poetry + performance + visual art):https://www.amazon.com/every-clock-handgun-pointed-head-ebook/dp/B0FNLHC6SY 👉 Read the transcript + subscribe for weekly pieces: ABOUT THIS WORK I’m a 72-year-old autistic poet, performer, and multimedia artist. Diagnosed late in life. Making work that gives you the actual experience of being autistic. Not explanations, not inspiration narratives. Raw, unfiltered, unapologetic. This piece explores three intertwining themes: parental regret, the autistic experience of time, and what it means to be seen. Plain language. No academic jargon. No hidden meanings. If you’re autistic, maybe you’ll see yourself. If you’re not, maybe you’ll understand us a little better. Born to raise hell. Autistic style. GIFT IDEA Looking for a meaningful gift for someone autistic in your life? This chapbook says “I see you” not “I want to fix you.” Available on Amazon + as Substack gift subscription. #SpokenWord #Poetry #ActuallyAutistic #AutismAcceptance #VisualPoetry #MultimediaArt #PerformancePoetry #NeurodivergentArt #AutisticVoices #ContemporaryPoetry 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

A spoken word piece about family wounds, estrangement, and choosing to live unapologetically. From Elvis dying on Mount Marcy to stalking Death Valley stars—this is what shameless looks like when you stop trying to be the son they ordered. 👉 Gift Season Special: “every clock is a handgun pointed at my head” https://a.co/d/3e0Uc7i Raw poetry & art exploring autistic innocence and experience. Perfect for: * Your autistic or ADHD someone (the gift of being seen) * That someone who isn’t... and wants to understand (the gift of connection) 👉 Get the chapbook: https://a.co/d/3e0Uc7i 👉 Full text & community: https://substack.com/@johnnyprofane1 👉 Live Autistic Truth playlist:https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PL_812RrZO_QWB-WHVZRBe-hjr37UNPxdb Chapters: 0:00 Family Is Complex for Me0:11 Living Life Perfectly Shameless0:45 Mount Marcy to Death Valley1:28 No Mask Hides the Pain Recorded live, November 2024. Minimal edits—this is what authentic sounds like. #ActuallyAutistic #ADHD #SpokenWord #FamilyDysfunction #AutisticPoetry #NeurodivergentVoices #AutisticAF --- AutisticAF Out Loud Not here to inspire you. Here to give you an experience of a life. Born to raise hell. Autistic style. Transcript Family is complex for me, Autistic Plus ADHD. So I call this one, Shameless. Live long enough Ya get a lot right, Get a lot wrong. Get to know Well enough Ya can’t be a saint Lurking in shadow… Living life perfectly Shameless. Shameless. Oh let me be Shameless… No sun sets On a painless life, So no moon shines On a stainless wife. Oh let me be… come Shameless. Scaling Mount Marcy That night as Elvis died, Got branded a Mountebank As my sister grew colder. Stalking Death Valley Same sister… now dead… to me Same stars… chill my shoulders Now living life perfectly Shameless… Shameless. Oh let me be Shameless… No peak caps An aimless life, And no grave ever filled By a blameless knife. Oh let me be… come Shameless… No mask hides The pain in life, So no words can Explain my fight. So, let me Be… come Shameless. I hate it, I love that one. This year, give the gift of being seen… to your autistic or ADHD someone. Or the gift of connection to someone…. who isn’t. 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

Trump brings Gaza war crimes home to US autistics. Using starvation to subjugate people is a war crime, whether at the point of a gun or denying SNAP benefits. November 1st, SNAP halted. Healthcare funding threatened. Social Security could vanish, Trump warns. 42 million Americans face losing food assistance. Not someday—right now. A nation that uses starvation on its own civilians? I’m no lawyer, but I’d argue that’s tantamount to war on its own people. Any day of the week. And I consider it a crime in its own right, even if courts reserve “war crime” for armed conflict. I can hear it already: “You’re being dramatic. That’s hyperbolic. You can’t compare domestic policy to Gaza.” Watch me. Medieval siege techniques. Surround them and starve them out. Whether it’s Gaza or Indiana. What’s Actually Happening? The Trump administration threatens benefits we count on to exist as political leverage during government shutdown negotiations. Support promised to the American public for decades, transformed into weapons to get what Trump wants. Here’s what international law says about that. The Rome Statute explicitly classifies starvation of civilians as a war crime, a crime against humanity. Around the world, deliberately depriving people of food for political gain—that’s defined as genocide. These aren’t my words, they’re international law. Gaza starvation: internationally recognized war crime. SNAP weaponization: They can call it an unfortunate policy choice, but it’s the same tactic, just a different population. Location doesn’t change that. Denying food to gain power simply is withholding food, withholding life for power. They’re not negotiating. They’re holding a gun to our heads. Why Autistics First? Numbers tell you everything you need to know. Autistics face an 85% unemployment rate. So we depend a lot on SNAP—I do. Most of us depend on Medicaid to see our doctors, and many of us are disabled, unable to work. So SSI dependency just to live, it’s a high priority. The government knows exactly who gets hit when they pull these levers: autistics, neurodivergents. We’re the most vulnerable first. We have the least political power of any minority group, I think. And look at the language they use. “Efficiency.” “Streamlining.” “Reducing dependency.” It’s the old Nazi “useless eaters” logic dressed up in techno-bro management appeal. Killing off the weak, dusted off and wrapped in budget terminology. We’re the testing ground, that’s how it always works. Start with disabled people. Normalize the tactic. See who complains, see if you can get away with it. Then expand to the next group. We’re the canaries in the coal mine. We die first. And we’re already choking. The Roll Call of History: Every Empire Does This Want to know how I know this is a war crime? Because every failing empire does exactly this. Brings colonial violence home. Every. Single. One. France took torture techniques from Algeria, brought them home for Paris riot control. The U.S. militarized policing in the Philippines, deployed in Ferguson. Britain did the exact same thing: tactics used in the Irish colonies, in India, that came home to British workers as labor disputes escalated. This isn’t speculation. This is documented history. The Ottoman Empire in its death throes: Armenian genocide, Greek genocide, Assyrian genocide. Ancient Rome. Ancient Egypt. Every single one. The pattern is always the same. It starts with unpopular groups: Jews, immigrants, disabled people, people they call “defective,” “foreign,” “unproductive.” Test on them first, see if anyone notices, see if anyone stops you, then expand. Scholars have a term for this: the “boomerang effect.” Or “internal colonialism”—when you apply colonial logic to your own people. Black radical thinkers saw this first, by the way. They recognized the pattern decades ago. The Gaslighting Ends Here So when someone says “You’re being dramatic”? No. I’m being historically accurate. “That’s hyperbolic.” The Rome Statute disagrees. I can read you the details. “You can’t compare domestic policy to war.” Every empire in history already done that. They already made that comparison for me. We’re not comparing tragedies. “Who’s suffering more than who?” We’re recognizing tragedy. When policy debates require trigger warnings like this article, like this livestream, maybe it’s not policy. When negotiations threaten survival, maybe they’re not negotiations. When efficiency means starvation, maybe it’s not efficient. It’s f*****g violence. That need for trigger warnings says it’s violence. Not discourse. We’re not being fragile. We’re being informed. We’re watching it happen in real time. Hell, it’s obvious in every bowl of beans I eat instead of a hell of heavily tariffed hamburger. What We Do Living through empire in decline: deadly for many. But here’s what we do. We call it as we see it. We refuse sanitized language. When they say “policy,” we call it violence. Because starvation kills as sure as a bullet. Just slower. When they say “negotiate,” we name it hostage taking for the purpose of political power. When they say “efficiency,” we shout starvation tactics. It’s medieval siege by budget. No catapults. No cannons. Just clean spreadsheets. We document the pattern. We recognize what’s really happening while it’s happening. We tell the truth about what we’re witnessing. And we survive together. How? Let’s talk again soon on meaningful resistance, survival, and mutual aid. I’m nearly ready to share my thoughts next week in my next livestream. The Picture I Want to Leave You With Trump brings Gaza war crimes home. Not as a metaphor—as a moral diagnosis. Same tactics, similar intent, different location, same f*****g outcome. Starvation is starvation. Siege is siege. Death is death. Even if the law reserves “war crimes” for battlefields and guys in uniform. Starting with autistics, starting with disabled people, starting with poor people, starting with anyone who needs to eat and expanding from there. Because that’s how it always works. That’s not drama, not autistic overreaction. If I ever hear that again—fuck the gaslighting we’ve lived through all our damn f*****g lives. That’s international law in definitions. That’s documented history in its examples. That’s pattern recognition across eras. We’re just the ones recognizing it first. Closing Listen, that’s all I got really. This episode, it’s why I do these livestreams. Why I need this community, you guys. Because when they gaslight us, we need witnesses. We need truth. When they isolate us, we need each other. When they threaten our survival, we need to document what’s happening in real time. See you next week around the same time. We’ll talk resistance, mutual aid. What actually works when the empire comes home. Till then? Stay weird. Stay fierce. Stay alive. Key Timestamps for Chapter Markers: * 0:00 - Opening Thesis * 1:08 - What’s Actually Happening * 2:23 - Why Autistics First * 3:19 - The Roll Call of History * 6:35 - The Gaslighting Ends Here * 7:50 - What We Do #AutisticAF Out Loud Newsletter is a reader-supported publication. Click to receive new posts free. To support my work, consider choosing a paid subscription. * 8:56 - The Picture I Want to Leave You With * 10:03 - Closing 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