rambly exercise from this evening

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midnight rose and mister happy
pumpkin in the patch formed a lazy
yawn that only passingly regarded
starry arts, though a bit of a giddy
sensation made mister happy pumpkin
erupt in a great goosebump tidal wave

at the way the moon’s gold glow
lent highlight to mister happy
pumpkin’s plump October orange
belly so hearty. Meanwhile about
six loose yards away a crinkled ashen
cornstalk said in sync with a soft breeze to

a fellow cornstalk, “what I’d give to exist
in such bliss that is ignorance
of what the biped rulers
always cause to come to pass
around this time of every year.”
Fellow cornstalk shrugged.

“I have heard by way of soiled tales
they feel virtually
nothing as the cutting is quite quick.”
“Maybe the cutting. But the gutting?”
“Oh yes. The gutting.” The cornstalks
shut their gray eyes and shivered together.

Just then a pair of freckled foxy twins
originally created within
one of many a tale saddened due to
one of those too-familiar delays,
well anyway, these freckled foxy twins
said at last this pause has gone on
quite long enough, and since this pumpkin

and cornstalk scene is found
in a typical rural setting
and the forlorn tale the foxy
freckled twins came to life in is
also set in a typical rural
setting, the foxy freckled twins
had not a great journey to get

from one typical rural scene
to the next typical rural scene
and so that’s how the foxy freckled twins
were able to slip into this little tale
that thought it would come out and do
a little jig and then return
to the lounge where the wine may not always

be vintage but is by local
tradition decree always on the house
for any tale short or long. Well, the foxy
freckled twins were not alone,
for they guided another who was
one lucky farm boy, Roy his name,
son of the other tale’s Farmer Tucker.

“We doubt your put-on toughness act.”
Somehow they positioned the lucky
farm boy Roy so the foxy freckled twins
towered over him, giving him
four firm reasons to surrender

his fabricated existence
to the supernatural swoon
sensation swearing to flood all
indications of rationality.
They then took note of the pumpkin,

having no way of knowing this pumpkin
went by mister happy pumpkin
chilling in his gold and greenish patch.
The foxy freckled twins chimed as one
about what a swell pumpkin specimen

and did the moonlight not do some fine work
as in the broad creamy strokes all over
the pumpkin’s super-smooth belly.
Just then the self-appointed limit
signaled with a shriek the work shall now cease.

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nosing a bit deeper into a random concept

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There once was a relative city
heavily populated by
what could be called Almost concepts
or if terms concrete are in demand,
it could be said that all that would be
called or known as Almost comprised
damn near half the sum total of
the relative city’s populace.

The single factor that kept all
of what could be classed with all that was
known as Almost, was an equally
strong and vibrant community
that made no bones and bared no shyness
about its proud heritage as members
unbending and stout, of what was Always.

For the most part the neighborhoods
where what was Always held easy sway,
peaceable interactions and relations
maintained predictable equilibrium.
But frictions were constant on the fringes.

joy was always in play, nothing more

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a bit sentimental
– okay, it’s more like more
than a bit – for ages gone
that supplied the delicious
borderline agony

of always teetering on the brink
where at any moment, orgasm
might almost come to an explosive
fruition; once upon a time,
the hillocks not distantly yonder

would all but undulate,
thus handily hooking focus
where a slightly bushy seam
would taper into mystical
places hidden to these windows.

Dearest concept so salacious,
we must forbid victory to forces
that seek to destroy all of our loves.

trying to get the feel back with a brief ramble (anybody out there?)

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————

Once upon a time,
or more like once upon
a sunny young morn,
one of the good lord’s fluffier
creations nibbled a grainy nugget
but did so in ignorance; this was
not an all-encompassing ignorance
on the fluffy creature’s basic account
as hardly a composition
enjoying any degree
of animation could not but be

aware that the sun
recently risen
must’ve gone to the atmosphere
market during the night,
mighty likely succumbing to a seed
hoping for once to grow into great
motivation, meaning the sun
for once did jump at the news
of midnight discount specials,
and now having finally seen the light,
put away personal

animosity for the big box
retail style and picked up a whole case
of the newer better bulbs,
forced to wonder about guilt
for a kind of theft
because of the unbelievable
bargain and fitted them in time
for these daytime duties; truly,
every vessel or cell that felt
the warmth find and fall upon them
were given little other choice

except to succumb to happy feelings,
if for no other cause than existence;
not a few could ably argue
against a mood that happened to be
in the vicinity, one of those moods
almost always high on gaiety,
this one suggesting they all sway
and swoon to the lilting rhythm
courtesy of a new tune being sung
by a sparrow quintet using the nearby
faded fence as their little makeshift stage,

and though the sparrow quintet did get
into a chatty debate
about a spotlight,
or lack thereof, agreement
was reached about the prudence
in testing this roughly sketched tune
on the public and consider
fine-tuning it for
an evening that would hopefully
exist within easy grasp
of a relatively near future.

The Annoyance Train Is Clearly By Design

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Maybe it’s just as well this voice
will fly without an encounter
or a chance to fill a vessel
a fellow wanderer carries

on the path trod by few but we
who know the song long sadly worn
and understand Here We Go Again
with the predictable chaos;

interruption-intrusion game
an absolute necessity,
to compete for phantom limelight.
Forced to ask: was this always so?

some of the bad, some of the good

don’t know what I might’ve done to render the Scribbler blog invisible
so I guess it’s good to have this one as a spare?

Timmy the Scribbler

Reading articles on the internet
about life prior to the internet
had this mustang’s head going nod, nod, nod

especially the smut magazine lines,
as in haywire action in the nerves;
sometimes angels would leave one in the woods.

So the old moratorium arose
or the old moratorium idea,
due to simple sunsets and sunrises;

lasted a good five hours, and by god
a bunch of them codgers hit a bullseye.
Yet. Blogging kitchen poetry is dope.

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Did I just see the light?

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am I having a damascus moment?
after forty years in the wilderness?
suckered in by cocky rock star excess?

This is what happens while exploring words
and investigating Commodity.
I was always a horrible salesman

and conventions felt alien, evil.
Talk about branding always left me cold.
Got a mind to put everything here.

when they mess with my Holy Book

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On the off chance that I am not the last literature-leaning person on earth to become aware of what is known as #cockygate, I feel lividly motivated to add my mostly unknown voice to the fray. It has roused the ire of this ordinarily live-let-live easygoing gentleman here in these rocky boonies.

Anyone who dabbles as a hobbyist or has achieved a full-time job status in a realm that so much as tickles a relation to the usage of words that happen to fall anywhere on the informative-creative continuum, should consider it chilling that someone is able to legally take possessive ownership of a single word and given power to prohibit anyone else’s use of a single word. This person (and thanks to this person there are more persons aiming to foster a sort of exclusive orgy that illustrates what happens with an indiscriminate mixing of arrogance, entitlement, and stupidity) must not be allowed to prevail and the message must be crystal clear and the font unmistakably gargantuan.

If there is a holy book that unites all manner of wordsmith, be they breathing among us or still speaking from pages printed in a near or distant past; be it a nobody poet-type like me who considers it a mighty accomplishment to complete a work which length qualifies as a novella, to the Greats like Hemingway or Faulkner or Cather or Poe, that holy book would be the Dictionary.

You know, thanks to the internet, we can access miles of lists and tests happy and quick to tell us who we are or offer clues as to if we might be who we think we are. It isn’t hard for a soul prone to bouts of self-doubt to get the message they are not a ‘real writer’ because this or that list or test decides this question for you.

Well, I think there is a very simple test: a Dictionary. The greater the likelihood that tears of reverential joy would fall on receiving a thick, detailed, dictionary for a gift, the greater the likelihood that the recipient possesses persuasions geared towards some avenue of literary expression, creation, appreciation….

Or for more concise wording: if your idea of a good time is a night spent in a dictionary, you might, you know….

So basically, the vile tide of scum attempting to trademark single words are literally seeking to bring corruption to our Holy Book. They think they are at liberty to come along and decide who among us may or may not access words in the Book rightfully, equally, open for all who have any level of interest in using words for any reason.

They are effectually seeking to force dictionaries to remake themselves so that all words will bear a little TM. If there is an issue that forbids the easygoing, live-let-live writer/poet-type from assuming a Whatever-lackadaisical posture and attitude, this must be the issue. This transcends religious, political, philosophical, racial, sexual, stylistic, etc, differences.

And don’t think that the potential ramifications can’t extend beyond the usage of words. Suppose some wacko psycho photographer happened to enjoy a measure of success with pictures of roses. They get it in their self-absorbed, delusional head, that since a certain number of people love this psycho’s rose photos, they must trademark pictures of roses, else some unsophisticated saps don’t realize the beautiful rose photo they are looking at and possibly purchased was shot and published by someone else. Yeah it sounds nuts. But these people are nuts.

So this kerfuffle blew up way back in early May. I just heard about it a couple days ago. Again in the off chance I am not the last to know of this, all one needs to do is search terms like ‘cockygate’ and many fine articles are out there. Also a petition. I never sign petitions. I signed this petition.

Doesn’t matter if you write poetry, prose, fiction, nonfiction, good poetry, bad poetry, good stories, bad stories; beginner or accomplished, eighteen or eighty; or if you are a reader of poetry, prose, fiction, nonfiction, good, bad, beginners or pros. This/these attempt(s) to take possession of single words, is a direct attack on you.

They are fucking with our Holy Book.

Nothing’s pissed me off, riled my passions, kicked my goat in the gonads, like this. I hate no person for how they live, what they believe, how they vote… but god almighty, don’t get me near these sorry excuses for persons. Dude don’t mess with my Holy Book.

 

 

 

the great cocky storm cloud kerfuffle

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this might be the working title of the next novella:

The Great Cocky Storm Cloud Kerfuffle

or

The Great Cocky Storm Cloud Extra Cocky Kerfuffle

and will use the pen name, Cocky Timmy Somethingrothr

and the pages will be numbered: cocky page 1, cocky page 2, cocky page 3

same with chapters (for the someday novel-length-in-waiting): Cocky Chapter 1, Cocky Chapter 2….

Signed,

Timmy the sometimes-Cocky Blogging Poet

*this post was inspired by the late learning of what is known as cockygate…. the deranged creature responsible for this idiocy, well, it’s a real piece of work