sketchy draft opener from a new thing

Once upon a time there was a rather
easygoing sort who sat
meditatively on a rock
who’d lived by a river
for a few thousand years and learned
even longer before the easygoing
dabbler to tolerate
an occasional backside’s weight

because the rock had no say in
the matter of the place Nature
assigned it which was to live
a motionless existence
next to a river of which
the segment the rock lived next to
was a quiet and calm segment
so never had much to say

but was content to slowly flow.
The easygoing sort sitting on the rock
had grown up to favor dabbling
but happened to be born in a world
antithetical to the directions
the easygoing sort – who for now
will be known as Eric the Easygoing
Dabbler – found favorable,

for it was a world that viewed with little
sympathy any being who went
around without shame about living in
ways that might sound a sentiment
of praise for what might best be called
an ethic lacking visible
gumption, and dabbling in anything
raised the danger of such an appearance.

Eric the Easygoing Dabbler
somehow managed to make it through
the hard times of maturity
and learned early on to keep his questions
about his distance from that world to himself
and this was when he began to understand
he had only one hope of getting along
without going all the way overboard

so he’d fall into an insane
asylum dressed to look like a harmless
sandlot, and before he knew it
he’d gotten accustomed to adulthood
and learned to apply his only hope
which was to be able to play
two roles, though one role really felt
unnatural but it happened

to be the more accepted of roles
and he confined his true nature
to the privacy of his residence,
at least as best he could; because Eric
the Easygoing Dabbler simply loved
to dabble in all kinds of things:
tangible things and abstract things; he saw
all of them as sleeves; sleeves pleasurable

to stick his finger or fingers in
and to meditate in the delightful
sensations that pretty much knew
to instinctively self-create.
Eric the Easygoing Dabbler
could appear a rather weak-willed person
but he actually possessed larger
reserves of strength than even he

appreciated because not many
of the locals could balance
such disparate roles so gracefully
as Eric the Easygoing Dabbler
balanced his disparate roles;
so gracefully did he learn to balance
the disparate roles he did not appreciate
the finesse required to live

a life of two persons and to not complain
about how one was required
but distasteful because of the absence
of authenticity; yet he’d managed
to learn to pretend he was a focused
and practical person by day
and allowed himself to be the dabbler
he knew he really was, by night –

or if he had no serious
things to do during a day,
he’d do his dabbling on that day.  
Well it should come as no great surprise
that a day came along that changed
everything about his life –
and it happened so quickly and it was
good it happened quick as it happened

– that all his insides were transformed
and they were transformed so his guts
told him his days of balancing two
disparate roles had come to an end.
This most momentous day was a sunny day
and Eric the Easygoing Dabbler
having as usual very few
commitments, bopped out of his residence,

waved a buoyant greeting to the young sun
and after a short walk down the street
hopped on the local auto-buggy
to a district that famously bustled
with many a manner of commerce,
especially on the day the local
auto-buggies carried citizens
at the expense of the city’s

council of tiny shells though they were
not crazy about translucence
which is an angle entirely alien
to the story about to begin.
The story about to begin most gets
going on when the auto-buggy
came to the familiar corridor of old
elms where Eric the Easygoing Dabbler

knew to pull the white string that told
the automatic buggy pilot
to apply brakes at the next corner;
so he hopped out and shortly found himself
strolling through the city’s marketplace
where many booths and tables were run
by genuine locals but sections
on the outskirts were available

to dealers traveling through
and while Eric the Easygoing
Dabbler mainly came to the marketplace
for an excuse to mingle with the populace
– maybe check out a couple glass domes
where cheeses tempted – his curiosity
got incurably piqued when he became
aware of a man peddling filters.

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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, no idea, poetry, story-poetry and tagged , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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