Scribbles 'n Bits

Tag: original

  • Scribd Twofers: A poem and an essay

    Art

    Shapes in
raw granite, 
a person.
An unaware,
apathetic block-
head
staring blankly 
in the mirror,
hammered and sanded.

From top
to toe, 
mouths run - 
collecting minerals -
dribbling away.
Forward springs life,
etching down
the drain.

Rock chips
stumble over
each other.
Dust finds home
on rough edges - 
inevitably the floor,
cracks in my dry,
clay-soaked hands,
and cloth folds  
wherever paint
doesn’t already cling. 

The eyes:
pained,
long set.
A muscular beauty,
the rest,
one casual greeting 
at a time.

In and out
of days,
nights fitting
somewhere between, 
apparently. 
I work.

    Pages: 1 2

  • The Sons of Laocoon

    Please, good 
hatred, 
I crave your amnesty’s 
desire.

I live 
without rent due 
anytime this month - 
seek me.
 
On occasion, 
the one 
she missed;
less often
each day. 

Who taught her those 
things, yes, 
you like. 
Much obliged. 

Her sculpture, an
idle thing to
revere - 
an idea

molded to 
life
scrape by
harrowing scrape.

Her best image,
a stampede alight, oh
alright.

Cherish her, I
could not.
Keep her, 
you could not.
Try.

  • The Process x River People

    Settling my hand
on a bur oak’s 
bare chest. 
Flailing distantly 
for the giving reach
and feeling encouragement 
from limestone
crevices beneath -
I leap. 
Hints of living
where fish
swarm in silver darts
for lunch
and never hunger.
She holds enough.
They have two children
in thick, wool hats.
A transparent bond
below a howling dog’s
wounded voice
caroling softly 
across the bristling stones.
    More here!

  • Limón

    Sometimes, 
if only cherries
had a kiss. 
Sprouting 
endearing pestilence. 
Most, yes - 
alright - 
all
of the time, 
I’d rather 
have lemons’
early dew.

    in the soft torrential curls that
    pool at the base
    in that fresh morning milk
    comes the caustic awakening
    sonrojo en su sonrisa
    the same flavor as sunrise

    I’d rather 
tener palos para
construir una cabaña.
I’d like you to
scratch my chest,
claw at the limbs,
burn from the roots,
and watch my fruit



fall.
    In collaboration with Caitlyn Salinas. My deepest gratitude and respect.

  • Could Never Pretend

    I am not the carbon copy,
but rather the rough
suffocating diamonds.
In these dank caves,
nothing comes through -
signals upon waves
upon kilojoules of pixels.
Time to turn off the news.

  • Siren

    Listening to your voice, I wonder how many beautiful poems I’ve hated listening in mine.

  • Vinyl

    Originally posted 4/4 (music credit: K’s Choice)

  • These Mutts are Near

    No dogs on the bridge.
No bikes either,
for that matter. 
But definitely no dogs
without leashes. 
That’s how they get you:
you say, 
dogs without leashes,
we can cross that bridge
when we get there.
All of a sudden,
you can’t cross with the dog,
so, you ditch the leash
and boom,
you’ve violated the sacred
oath.
No dogs without leashes.

    Pages: 1 2 3

  • Preposterous Ponderings: iii.

    Certainty:

    A crutch we use

    to reassure ourselves

    everything is okay.

    But it already was,

    because things are

    and thus, already

    as they should be.

  • Antithesis