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.

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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

periodic reminder manifesto

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I cannot write a ‘real story’
and to be honest I have a hard time
getting interested in writing
what the pros would call a ‘real story’.
What I can do, and what I like to do
(like? Heck it’s love all the way baby)
is begin at such and such point
or with such and such word, and ramble,
and ramble, sometimes for a length
arbitrarily predestined, say,
two-k or twenty-k
and maybe go back for a few refills,
play with texture and flow.
If gauges read amusement: good enough.
That’s what I can and do love to do.

I cannot write a ‘real poem’
and to be honest when I read about
what the literati declare
what a ‘real poem’ must be
I lose interest lickety-split.
What I can do and what I like to do
(like? Heck it’s love all the way baby)
is pick a noun or pluck a verb
and grab a flexible line total
and ramble, branch, ramble, branch, see
what comes along and how things go.
‘Success’ would be based on amusement,
and if the thing amuses me somehow,
maybe someone out there will be amused.
That’s what I can and do love to do.

I sure in the dickens cannot draw
and to be honest, the discipline
is lacking to a functional absence.
What I really love to do is
grab a pen, pencil, stylus, paper,
or open a free digital program,
and mess around, mess around, mess around.
Maybe set a super loose time limit,
mess around, mess around, mess around, see
what comes along; what might speak from the ink,
or the pixels or the graphite.
Since bouncing artistic expectations
there is a freedom to enjoy the cruise
and if someone sees and is amused,
it becomes the sweetest ever surprise.

When sight is lost of this manifesto
sour, dour, days, nights, surely follow.
When this light returns to the horizon
rambling fever joys are born again.

anybody out there?

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Okay, I’ve never been a mega-like recipient, but have become satisfactorily accustomed to a 7-10 range.

I understand my stuff isn’t for everybody. Understood this long, long, ago, even before the internet.

Always been a sort of outlier whether purposefully or not (most often not) and sometimes the sense is isolation and other times pleasantly spacious.

Whether any kind of -ology (psychology, astrology, typology, theology) is able to adequately explain it is something I cannot longer be bothered to inquire too extensive into.

Heck, maybe half the battle is being okay with a reality that says, no matter what you produce, no matter how ‘good’ or ‘accomplished’ it can be said to be, for some reason profound or not profound, it will be of limited appeal to a small audience. In a way – depending on the mood I’ll say in a big way – it lightens the load and allows a lot of freedom to do whatever, go wherever, and for no greater reason than personal enjoyment.

But something has been happening lately that can’t but pique my curiosity: while the likes I receive are ordinarily few, lately, especially on the blog that I considered the main base blog, there’s been like zero, as if it suddenly ceased existence or went Poof! into invisibility.

Did I post something inappropriate? I have received no such notification.

Is this one visible? Readable? Searchable?

Is anybody out there?

hopeless in idaho or dealing with constant interruptions while trying to think, much less write

Timmy the Scribbler

Receptor sector, stand straight down,
signal under the usual
rude serpentine scramble attack.

Yes it is unfortunate that
drills such as these are now routine,
but the complex is in a state

that officially despises
types that thrive where quietude blooms.
Processors too, stand straight down.

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gonna test them all if I must

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the ball of heat rolling along
a dry section of ground… come on,
section is terrible; sucks bad,
come on, what about dry terrain?
Obviously, it’s gonna be

damn dry now – but where else can balls
packing heat as this beachball-sized ball
roll along without a pansy
summoning volunteers?
So anyway, the ball was

rolling along though not so fast
doing what good proper balls
were from the genesis blast
intended to do, which was and is
to roll along and saying ‘sorry’

no more than once in a mauve moon.
So where in the dickens did this thing
intend to take a curvy journey?
Seems there is a sighing sagebrush club;
sighing hardly the word; more like huffing,

something like, “why did we bother
to memorize dialogue lines?”
Suddenly the ball quit rolling
and piped, “yeah I’m hot stuff alright,
but I’m hardly an arsonist.”

one more test before bedtime

Timmy the Scribbler

adventures pulling up the juncture
could not at all mind the sweet sticky deal
coming as a complete surprise

plunging to the depths processors
able to claim ancient pedigree.
Electricity a participant,

the haywire effect makes perfect sense.
But how could who is partially sane
too terribly mind that smoky stench?

True, few are exactly happy
trees once full of sap in a flash
were changed into monuments of charcoal.

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Testing a new Technique (and maybe a magical key)

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As always eyes gazed blind
at the phenomenon most obvious
which means a repeat ladder clamber

and make the missionary fuzzy, as in,
there was a fuzzy missionary
and this fuzzy missionary’s bosses

decreed he journey to a distant country
fixed as though screwed in a tropical sea;
alas the fuzzy missionary’s bosses

were in the dark about secret weaknesses
which for a fellow were not abnormal,
but for a missionary, even a slick

missionary, this kind of concealment
could hardly honor the reputation
of the boss even bigger than the fuzzy

missionary’s immediate bosses.
Well, hindsight, spilled milk, and all that jazz
indeed amounts to surplus info, much like

the marijuana in Washington.
Once he sunk his senses in coconut meat
and slid his toes in seaweed, it was finished.