sketchy opening from what I’m pretty sure I most enjoy messing with

A man who for this torrid tale ripe for unfurl
shall go by an alias a fledgling alias
company custom-conjured as Eugene
shook his head and pressed his lips as he tried
to hold the breathing element composing
his basic composure steady and calm
when the door’s soulless latch clicked in the signature
click of closure as his hand seemed deaf
or at least comatose in its lack of response
to his command he figured carried

enough urgency it cease its shakes as the shakes
his hand shook seemed to alert all the universe’s
attentions so all attentions were ensnared
and taken away from whatever other realms
they’d been attuned to and twisted into
a sudden swivel variant and in
an instant dwarfing all that is blink,
gathered in a kind of cultic fixation
on the world of the door latch click
with its signature brassy clack

of closure and Eugene couldn’t yet be sure
of the order or the rank rigid digits
said he would be slotted in on his arrival
this bitter night though autos becoming
too familiar and becoming so oh too soon
populated the parking lot so
the parking lot’s nature had to acquiesce
the way of the lounge in quiet space to the glut
of cutout crafts manufactured for the good
of all rather than for looks or the rumble

of an engine whose makers lauded
the muscular and when he walked the sidewalk
to the entrance he walked it all alone
and he feared he ran late so there was no time
to let his eye settle appreciatively
to the snowy trees which pained him enough
because he loved shooting photographs
of all kinds and studying how to shoot
photographs he’d never shot and his
sensitive eye came into the world

invested with a special weakness
for snowy trees or tree branches
specifically branches belonging
to hardwood trees of which mistaken
pursuance was all but impossible
if they were dark and oaken and extra
especially the branches belonging to hardwood
trees a run of slow decades blessed with the seasoning
of age so they’d developed arthritic twigs
and something about them dressed in snowflakes

yet untainted by earth’s pollutants
or the reminder their ancestors
had been cut down and burned in ovens
and stoves, something about them or the stories
that ached to be told but would spend their existence
in silence gave sudden competition
to the female form in the way they
stimulated Eugene’s photographic eye
and he’d wish he had no obligations
but to try and capture snowy tree scenes

or not even entire scenes but fleeting
snippets a film speed and an aperture
would mildly distort, learning long ago
about the deceptive notion it is
that photographs are apt in reality
captivation; well neither these
pontifications on photography
nor did a love of the magic
that pictorial images incant
have a chance to plunge deep and long

in the game at trying to define this bitter
night because his destination
tolerated no tardiness
so he had to hurry and hasten his pace
and this haste Eugene self-propelled himself
into amplified or seemed to amplify
the penetrative powers of a gust
who dreamed of becoming a gale
standing amidst a crowd signing autographs
for being famous as an operatic

maestro in voice so it was like
the stinging chill of the incoming winter
wind did not have to decide whose human
face to ping and pelt with iceless
icy nail stabs; and Eugene had to temper
the fast-heightening heat banging against
the walls of his inner cauldron in performance
of these actions as if these acts of shaking his head
and pressing his lips together and trying
to hold his breathing steady and calm

so his basic composure would not flirt
with a danger of splintering, could cause
the nearest available
Invisibility attendant to pull
its gluey attentions out of the espionage
movie it was just then neck-deep engrossed in
and create a rescue plan designed to singly
save Eugene from the tar pit fix
he himself got his hapless ass into
since he’d forgotten foxy virtues.

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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 excerpt, fiction, poeticprosish, poetry, roughly sketched, streamy and tagged , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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