Scribbles 'n Bits

Tag: writers guild

  • While In

    Subverting patience
one expectation at a time.
I like to weaponize 
existentialism - 
it’s my kink.
I don’t even like the music,
I just know you
like me for listening. 
What a ball,
a beautiful wedding. 
So pulls the oxen 
on cart. 

Pardon me a moment
while I spiral 
out of control here.

  • Tri Cyclic

    I did nothing
but watch
helpless
as the young
of my generation,
the gifted
and beautiful,
trapped themselves
in the same 
dead ends 
we hated the old
for wasting their
lives on.

I’m sorry.

  • Welcoming

    From birth
your time, 
they say,
will come.

Your family 
excited,
the papers,
you sign.
Guns flare. 

The uncles, 
the grandads,
the fathers - 
those left - 
they say, 
your time 
will come.

You sign,
they cheer,
you fight,
they boo.
Your war 
will come.

  • Requiem

    It becomes a dream
you share. 
The first to wake up
leaves.

  • Motivation

    Let their derision fuel your passion.

  • Coagulant

    Our ancestors sold the future

    for convenience. Now,

    we waste away,

    fighting for peace of mind.

  • Addicted

  • Rubber

    I would have rather walked. Despite the early spring chill, I longed for a refreshing hike.

    I parked, feeling the tires’ dread an inch from a small grit burn. They needn’t have gone through this existential horror except that I had so many quarters to rid myself of. 

    Standing at the roadside, the long–necked animal swallowed my change. It ate eagerly, one by one, and in turn showed all that I was an honest person with no proclivity for petty crime. 

    I waited for the meter to down the last coin with a metallic gulp. After it squawked happily, I climbed back behind the wheel and drove home so I could take the walk I desired instead.

  • 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.