2014 #109

One of those episodes
where sleep could come but won’t
or maybe it wants to but trips on the barbell
left in the alcove where it went to undress;
so the kiosk is calling, the one selling
all hours all-purpose intoxicants
plus almost anything else; sorta want
to get cracking but it isn’t quite dawn,

first buses yawning, taxis
pestering pilots about that garage date,
but sorta prefer to poorly meditate
under the blankets, wonder what anything
means, where turns were missed, and a door
that finally made sense but the corridor
isn’t the brightest – by brightest
meaning the lighting though the other

could apply too – maybe just say it all
with dim – realizing that as much as I delight,
in rambling in ink, almost every
single real person in my life
is not interested in it, never were,
which I had to wonder if it might’ve
contributed to this tardy blooming,
but then again I’m kinda glad

almost no real person in my life
is interested in what I end up using ink
to ramble in because I can explore worlds
we’d never discuss during a low lit
linen supper table; realize
how true it is about radical
differences between the worlds
and why they cannot be lovers.


About Timmy the Scribbler

Love to write all kinds of stuff I love writing so many different kinds of stuff it is a constant struggle to narrow the focus to a manageable handful and let the others go. But a few years ago I dipped my fingers into a poetry pie and of all my uncertainties, one thing that is no uncertainty is that it is one passion that must remain, so maybe that's the one. I do dearly delight in chopping up fictional works into stanzas and syllables.
This entry was posted in incidental, poem, poetry, travails and tagged , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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