messing around with acquaintances and beginnings

Blue Bibs listened to
the meditative rhythm
of his piss raining on a community
of weeds and stones and dirt and when his piss
had crossed the crescendo phase, Blue Bibs
reminded himself to give a grateful
gaze to this land’s heavens
which had a blue like Blue Bibs’ bib

overalls were blue except for the one small
difference being a difference
in depth, and the ball of bright yellow
blessed Blue Bibs by reminding him
how blessed he was in other areas,
like having fine friends and reliably
laid-back neighbors, among them the man
known as Straw Halo because of his

preference for keeping a wide hat
of straw on his head except when he’d enter
a house, including a house of worship.
Straw Halo hadn’t needed to take
a walk off the side of the road
but he never minded any excuse
to stop anywhere in this land
for a short or long duration.

So he’d settled himself so he leaned against
the slightly dinged but mighty durable
flatbed vehicle which was laden
with hay; gazed less at the sky and more straight
ahead where white oval spots yet dressed
the mountains that few who’d not visited them
could believe they were as high as they
really were. Did doff his wide straw hat

of sunny yellow but only to mop
his forehead for the days were mighty hot
and his forehead mopped, Straw Halo stuck
his hanky back in his dungarees
and plopped his sunny yellow straw hat
back atop his head. About that time, Blue Bibs
had shaken the last drops from his piss and tucked
his pisser in his underclothing under

his blue bib overalls and came to join
Straw Halo, though not in such a lean
but definitely a stance that few body
language interpreters would interpret
as a man in much of a hurry.   
“Guess what I love most about this land
is that it doesn’t matter what you do or where
you go. Something pleasant is always near.”

“Like always, you say
phrases that I couldn’t argue with
no matter how I might hunger
to dabble with contention.”
“I do sometimes wonder
if I express adequate
gratitude to our heavens.”
“Oh I think there’s no need to worry

about pride. Expression
of gratitude I think
is plenty. Maybe offer a prayer
for grace upon those
who do not enjoy the world we do.
Show kindness to the occasional
pilgrim. Be not selfish.”
“Well I don’t see how anyone

could be selfish around here. Why my own
darling Magnolia, she whips up
some of them dumplings and I don’t know
how she creates that bountiful
a kettle but – well that’s why you’ll never
have to worry about going hungry.”
“Now we get to talking about the goodness
of the goodies our women whip up

with their magic hands – and how they
are able to keep those magic
hands as supple as they do -“
“Well we all know that answer –
in the water. Just something in the water.”
“Now what the – sounds
like some angry bumblebee.”
It was no bumblebee

coming up the road. What was coming
up the road and coming fast
was a small car of red
like the red coat on a candy
promising not only sweet
but heat. The red hot sweet
car did zoom towards them like a life form
packing a stinger, but the speed

dropped dramatically
and it wasn’t hard to prophesy
that seeing Straw Halo and Blue Bibs
and the hay-laden flatbed
played the primary role
in giving the candy red car’s driver
cause to dramatically drop
the speed, to the point of applying brakes

but not quite applied in time to prevent
an overshoot where it had to create
a screech and the motor
mumbling more than buzzing
like a bumblebee, the candy
red car slowly crawled backwards
until relatively even
with Straw Halo and Blue Bibs.

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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 exercise, poetry, practice, roughly sketched and tagged , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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