Category: for arts sake
-
Poem 7
Too much knowledge exists to be truly wisein one lifetime. how were we to know? truthis but the carcass, feathers the facts thattailor the bird . . . what evidence revealswe all too often disregard – we of thesentimental persuasion, and victimsof formative faiths in our hostage years.Too much of faith remains to be truly…
-
poem 6
it matters nothing that the screen is blankit matters nothing that the screen is filledthe flow of words, the stream of consciousness:do these matter? what matter? what meaningto find in these ancient letters – magicthat we scribble thus and it causes usto hallucinate in a predictablepattern we call reason or logic. yetreality abides not our…
-
poem 5
searching for a couplet in the dim din of my mindjust a muddle and chaos do I find:too little sleep, too much worry, it alladds up to knock you down – a working stifffinds little peace throughout the week. you fallinto exhaustion’s ruts and wonder ifthe whole damn shitshow isn’t some viciouslie, some trick –…
-
Poem 3: Prognosis
grieving from the prognosistrying to rest a moment(recovery is not yet possible)“Lay your head on my chest,”my darling wife invites.I do.“Sorry,” she whispers, “time andgravity have pulled my pillowsinto my armpits.”(humor always our drug of choice)“It’s okay,” I murmur, dimly amused in the darkness of grief.I don’t need pillows, Sweetest; what I needis your heartbeat…
-
Yearend Challenge
to write 100 poems by midnight 1 Jan 2024.
-
Kali Dances
we went to kinney’s down on sixth becausewe like the jukebox, filled with old jazz and bluesstandards and classics from the nineteen-twentieson. kali especially likes munk and dukeellington and hoagie carmichael, andkali sizzles when she dances, so weall kept her happy, pumping dollars oneafter another and in fives to keepthe music fresh and hopping as…
-
undergods of creation
I have just set the sun in the sky, slightlyangled toward afternoon, when my ghost comesto tell me my images are againinfantile like a child drawing with crayons.where are the birds, the jet from chicagostreaming its way to houston, or perhapsa reiterated ‘v’ of migratingfowl—it is the season—and where those leaves,richly colored in the bright…
Fringemonkey Scribbles 