Month: June 2018

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?

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.

periodic reminder manifesto

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?

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?

gonna test them all if I must

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)

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.

this poem contains the first glimmer in long time

Timmy the Scribbler

Consciousness topics interest
me a lot, to such an extent
that when the heat is high I camp
around so-scented article
counties and townships, however,
keeping sacred virtues apart

as experiential teachings
affirm that wisdom is aware
that going out guarded is good;
besides, writing days have drifted
into an access denial
status, textures losing ridges

even as this line gives a gaze
towards nothing particular
due to a dumbfounded wonder
about why it even exists.
Ah, the smell of a disastrous
poetic edifice meadow!

And where there is a poetry
disaster scent, a scented slit
promising slickness is oft close.
That would be the good news. The bad
news is actually a happy
tide: at last I wrote a mudslide.

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the war of atmospheres rages, rages

Timmy the Scribbler

the sneaky slimy sun
was not always a sneaky
slimy sun but had gone
over to this dark dank side

during a time when stresses
aimed brute blazes directly
into quarters once assumed private
and allowed no space in which

to chill a bit; calmly swerve
or sway as a mood (mood
here presumably mellow)
might saunter along to suggest

and with a languid yawn
send to the damp lawn tranquil
vibes; again invading blaze brutes
came hellbent on quelling joys like these

and sadly for what had been sunshine
sleek, fit, quietly bold, the invaders
are currently erasing the forests,
and plan to criminalize oddities.

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