Explaining a few things

Once upon a time, I had the good fortune to become interested in exploring the fit between poetry and me, and fell fast in what might be a love as real as any other love or as love might be recognized or defined. It offers paths and roads that can go anywhere, whether on earth or outer-outer space; relate a real event or sensation or totally make something up, thus moving into what I think is known as Narrative Territory. I became super interested in sketching something fictional and then messing around with line breaks and sounds, syllables, etc.

Decided to see about posting my stuff on a blog like this and received little but encouragement and readers. Started having tons of fun (I’m a guy who likes to have tons of fun). This went on from late 2011 until… well I’m not sure. What I am sure of is that I could depend on a general number of likes — until one day they suddenly ceased, as though I suddenly disappeared. Only thing I could guess was I got flagged or something? So I went to an empty blog and restarted there and pretty sure I explained the mystery and the reason. Well what happens but the same thing: likes and a few comments, and then nothing.

What I’m trying to say is that if anyone out there remembers a blog I called ‘Come to Timmy’ and then changed to Timmy the Scribbler, well, that’s me. If you are new to reading my stuff and you enjoy, you might be interested in what I frankly think was a better era of writing, and that can be found here:


or you might find some stuff you enjoy here:


And I guess for now we are here, though I do miss that coziness of having one broke-in blog that people could know would be there should they happen to wander by.



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one stiff shot of amnesia please

some parchments from a distant past
are more vivid than yesterday;
maybe Time really is fiction.

Example: the expedition
searching for nothing specific
encountered a clouded island

and a highly seasoned instinct
advised avoidance might be best
due to an aura humorless

and absent wine and maiden scent
and if experience had taught
nothing else to we voyagers

lands lacking basic elements
fundamental to decency
– drugs, booze, humor, easy women,

have without exception proven
to exert hot hostility
towards enjoyable music

as devils prowl everywhere
according to their sour saints.
Well we failed to heed that instinct.

They were friendly at first, but then
they made us burn all our records,
even mellow saxophone jazz.

The point would be that this happened
in a relative distant past
but tortures inflicted yet last

for though we managed to escape
that isle of holy horror,
we have to know those years are lost

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those wonderful few years in Bucharest

Recalling the day the door to the cage
was flung wide and a sky offered escape,
rising to physical feet optional

as well as meeting people on the streets.
Should a sour mood happen to invade,
a tale could still be built from a sparrow

whose history need not read factual.
Or maybe Whimsy was feeling spunky
enough to suggest we blast into space,

look for a friendly Neptunian moon;
keeping eyes peeled for their red light district,
the more immorality the better.

Jet back to the pad, help lines tell of it,
with assistance from a bottle of wine.
Surprise surprise, prudish pricks don’t approve.

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sorry, no sale here

seems like a miraculous shroud would send
a pandemonium throughout the land
and writers see fit to mention it
as the first known cosmic copy machine
(speaking of which, is Kinko’s still around?
that’s where I did sacrifice years ago,
Kinko’s, often Saturday evenings
– hey and maybe speaking of the lord like this
plays a part as a holy kind of aid

in restoring my old wandering ways
when it comes to composing poetry
or what I brazenly call poetry
– and speaking of that: maybe a few
fellow former captives of Abraham
can relate to the stress envelopment
of wondering if an artistic act
might upset the maker of all things).
Consider the magnitude of the con.

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faint shades of what should be

Hunkered in a hole
Captain said to no character
in particular, “whatever
could’ve possibly possessed me
when I signed up for Creation.”

One smudged adjective said,
“all of us are suckers.
Guess we gotta hand it
to the diabolical crew
who designed those posters.”

Captain resisted signs
that might betray agreement
but he finally had to nod
and said, “yeah, those poster artists
did a damn good job. Look at us.”

Meanwhile a metaphor
whose spirits were normally high
but had earlier fallen mute,
called attention to itself,
by saying, “can’t take it no more.”

As if Captain’s concerns
were not weighty enough, he spent
leadership energies to keep
the metaphor from cracking up,
though not the way laughing means.

“yes dear metapor, this is hard.
None of us exactly enjoy
being stuck so long in this rut.
But we’re already low enough
on similes as it is.”

Metaphor began to mutter
(and a bit bitterly), “can’t take
having to hunker in this hole
without at least taking a shot
at running for a fantasy.”

Before another character
could stop it, the metaphor jumped
out of the hole they hunkered in,
and would’ve charged across the page,
but Reality shot it down.

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might have contracted a youtube habit

the bandits are furry and five
and phantom in method of theft
– initial assumption marked them
as nature’s wild characters.

But wonderment raises a hand
to ask if it is possible
parallels operate unseen,
as in they that come for the corn,

and hardly scram when told to shoo,
are doing their darndest to say
a certain human will do well
to update psychic defenses

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the high speed’s dark side

it is written
as part of a poem
feeling today ancient

– what a surprise – forces
from foggy wings have swept in,
intent on disrupting flow
that could give birth to genius lines,
though the why is a matter
more suitable for occult space

– whatever was written had nothing to do
with such a chubby belly above us. Oh I
do miss blogging in an era I’ll call Golden.

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