Index for posts concerning Prose

“He didn’t even stick up for me.” by Dark Poet
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Worked by Dark Poet
1 comment

A New Economics: Upside Down by Bieren Skidels
10 comments

The Roots Hold up the Flowers by Bieren Skidels
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Creativity? by Bieren Skidels
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Bieren’s Morning Poetry Series #16 by Bieren Skidels
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Bieren’s Morning Poetry Series #13 by Bieren Skidels
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Life Sentence by Bieren Skidels
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Bieren’s Morning Poetry Series #11 by Bieren Skidels
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Bieren’s Morning Poetry Series #8 by Bieren Skidels
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“He didn’t even stick up for me.”

Posted on January 22nd, 2009 by Dark Poet.
Categories: Prose, Local, Parental Advisory.

I went out to my car to get a couple of books for stuff I am going to work on for school. As I went back I heard a woman crying on the shoulder of her friend, saying that “He didn’t even stick up for me…” *sob > sob > sniffle > sniffle*. I immediately began to criticize the guy. “He doesn’t even know what he stands for, so how can he stand up for you?” I should of said to her. But that would have pointing the finger at him went it should be pointed at me;
It was childhood, but maybe the some of attitudes of that time went on and on through the years. Darth B’Strad was fighting and losing to the neighbor’s boys a couple of doors down. Instead of standing up for him, I parked myself at the fence. Dumb fucking move. Years of torture for my brother could have been avoided if he KNEW I got his back, rather than me saying I got his back (when and if I really would have done got his back). I am truly sorry, please forgive me.
In truth, in many ways I am becoming what I really am: unreliable. If is not somewhat obvious at this moment in time, then, I assure you, the attitudes are there and festering more and more. But talking about only me is not the point of this post.
‘Strad, I want to become a big brother to you, to see you succeed, grow, and develop your own unique way. Money is bull squash for proving I got your back, so I want more to prove so you KNOW I got your back. I feel somewhat bad for breaking the promise to our Arizonian bro, that I would go snow boarding with him. I worked the 4 am instead. I was planning on working the 4 am on the 8th; FUCK ‘em bitches, I’m taking a personal holiday, calling in, or just not showing up for work.

10 comments.

Worked

Posted on April 14th, 2008 by Dark Poet.
Categories: Prose.

The Meatloaf is drizzly with ketchup and parsley; up on it’s marble platform. Quiche cut close to thirds, also on marble. The Cole slaw almost gone by people buying it. It being the “PERFECT!” side dish to their steak or eggs or egg steaks on this nice, nice day for grilling stuff. The brass’s Advertisement dinner items all have the same decor: salad, then washed kale, then two orchids (purple outside and white is near the pistol and stamen inside). These are adjacent from each other, and such as it has to be in an “L” shape. The other salads are arranged in bright and colorful balance and fashion throughout with their decor. But with their decor, arrangement, and bulk they still do not represent artistic balance, for the right is not normal bowls configured at 7, and the left is normal bowls configured at 6. Well, if it was a “PERFECT!” artistic balance, people would admire the feat, and not buy, and eat it up. The salads to buy are worked.

1 comment.

A New Economics: Upside Down

Posted on March 13th, 2008 by Bieren Skidels.
Categories: Political, Party System, Poetry, Prose, Orig. Literature, Creative Writing.

sometimes flies buzzing sounds intelligent
… morris code if you will, an attempt
yesterday… I could swear! that yesterday
the woodpecker, pecking near my window
was in fact, tapping out — the Fibonacci sequence
and whales! haven’t you seen Star Trek?
even the dinosaurs had spaceships
Apparently rainbows are not enough? the sign is still lost…
to associate not only sentience
(but also greater intelligence)…
with instincts? random beauty?

What if we are the last species to come into the collective consciousnesses? Maybe the woodpecker was trying to get through to me, through the wall around my brain. The flies are speaking in code because they can’t vocalize a bilabial implosion, a velar effective… and if they could? Would I listen?

sometimes times don’t rhyme with reality, the sense of real is deception - and everyone is in fact, waltzing acerbic… And they don’t even know how to dance! If they did, they might understand that I’m not trying to build pyramids nor casinos. I want rust and dust, a real existence! Maybe a stochastic/statistical economy w/ high level of variation (chaotic if you will), in which the banks shift money back and forth daily, in fact so do the credit companies. Each waking day you may be poor or rich, and may have to rely on those you helped yesterday… Would the world truly be chaotic? or would we learn to support everyone around us, because tomorrow they might be our savior? The homeless man might buy Paris Hilton a meal, so she’ll quit tricking. How would you spend your money if it didn’t effect your balance tomorrow, would it have to irresponsible? Or are their ways to responsibly live in such a world?

Maybe its not Marxism or equality we should seek - nor capitalism, but Randomism - random altruism. Physical goods would increase in value - but unless it’s small enough to fit in your pocket, you can’t assume ownership for more than one day. Mansions become getaways, or communes - food is given to all friends (in hope that they are rich tomorrow)… Merit along with relationships ensures your stability… and maybe through this interdependence we could become disillusioned in power and riches - and spend time listening to the woodpeckers, the flies, and the whales. Humanity could come into its own role, one in which we live for today - always respecting tomorrow and those we might have to live with.

10 comments.

The Roots Hold up the Flowers

Posted on February 29th, 2008 by Bieren Skidels.
Categories: Poetry, Prose, Orig. Literature, Philosophy, Creative Writing.

“The Roots Hold up the Flowers”

The rain came down on letter-land
Contagious spring-time showers
Spreading graphomania
To the all the plants and flowers
The drops were names as follows,
Thoreau, Addison, and Keats
These drops fell on wooded-land
Splashing upon un-shooed feets
The others, Kundera and Brodsky
(Even maybe Safran-Foer)
Fell on the eyes of the innocent
Or despicably amoral elites
A few got through, beneath the dirt
The “upper crust” they “call” it
And squirmed into the roots of society
These drops had little nutrition
They went by names LaHay & Clancy
Mixed with bits of J.K. Rowling (if you fancy)
They maintained equilibrium in the roots
an “equitable” mediocrity…
one might say, ineffectual apathy

“Watch out young sir!” they screamed “beware young words of ignorance! For we the roots of society, are more — much more than you suggest. We don’t reject these gifts of God out of apathy for all beauty. It’s the beauty tinged with boredom that gets us. What you might call difficult, like Foucault or Structuralist thought, so prized by Academia-grad for it’s complex grotesqueness. We’re not to be considered less if it takes, as it has — and will from time anew to time infinity, a few flashes of color, a movement in a thousand sounds to stir the hearts of our masses. And the roots may grow to serve the ring that rules all through optics projecting names, all too familiar while also contextually foreign… We find allure in the medium. And your books, my young flower, while causing you to bloom cause boredom underneath the dirt and lead us to decay. We eat different food, you and I. And without us roots, blinded by dirt, you would not be held so high — to look upon the beauty above… So appreciate the drops of rain, void of nutrients observable to you, raindrops that dig deep beneath the dirt and feed the roots that hold you up!”

0 comments.

Creativity?

Posted on January 20th, 2008 by Bieren Skidels.
Categories: Prose, Orig. Literature, Philosophy, Creative Writing.

Philosophers don’t win wars, they outlive them. And their ideas are timeless despite ephemeral roots in a fragile being. Humans, they are dynamic approximations capable, within fateful moments, of producing discrete ideas extraterrestrial in exactitude. It’s inexplainable! creativity…

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Bieren’s Morning Poetry Series #16

Posted on January 3rd, 2008 by Bieren Skidels.
Categories: Poetry, Prose, Orig. Literature, Creative Writing.

“Slumberous Choir”

In the morning my living room is filled with a nasal chorus. A white boy and two engaged lesbians sleep roughly. Homeless, they have stumbled into my house and settled in. The gurgle of the coffee maker joins the slumberous incantation, now accompanied by running bath water upstairs. I add the melody in key taps, writing up this story, and before I’ve finished the coffee is made - I’ve had to run and shut off the bathwater… Indeed, even the snoring has ceased. It’s 10:10 AM, there’s snow on the ground outside and quiet inside… I’m sitting alone, wondering why?

3 comments.

Bieren’s Morning Poetry Series #13

Posted on December 24th, 2007 by Bieren Skidels.
Categories: Poetry, Prose, Orig. Literature, Creative Writing.

I enter a chamber of forbidden intimacy
flat surfaces checkered, hands lying on them
eyes entranced - following my figure
I use my hands and mouth precisely
not too much and not too little
instructing on each angle, and approach
hopefully something is learned,
maybe next time they’ll be a little better
anyhow it’s a classroom - I’m a TA
you’re a reader, and probably rather confused

chill out

0 comments.

Life Sentence

Posted on December 19th, 2007 by Bieren Skidels.
Categories: Poetry, Prose, Orig. Literature, Philosophy, Creative Writing.

“Life Sentence”

Consider the man who in his toil and strife stops to pardon a passer who stepped on his flower, which caused the man to consider life’s mission was that which grew from the ground, below a tree, and up toward heaven, knowing neither it’s name nor purpose and was trampled as suddenly as the idea had crept, creeping swiftly and softly, through his brain, inept.

Note:
This is a case of finite fathoming the infinite, a painting staring back at its painter if you will, because we are the painted:

“[…] the question immediately becomes a double one one: the face reflected in the mirror is also the face that is contemplating it; what all the figures in the pictures are looking at are the figures to whose eyes they too present a scene to be observed. The entire pictures is looking out at a scene for which it is itself a scene.”

- Michel Foucault

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Bieren’s Morning Poetry Series #11

Posted on December 17th, 2007 by Bieren Skidels.
Categories: Poetry, Prose, Orig. Literature, Creative Writing.

“ləˈkɒnɪk”

the coal train passes
slowly, not too fast
but very steady rate
this is good
and I count the seconds
timing each car passing
number forty-seven
time to go, I climb the fence
and drop onto slush
a few more feet and a foot deep of snow
I hurry up the berm,
number 48… wait just 1 more second
one, one thousand — jump!
my fingers latch on the side bars
and I ease my way around the back of the car
onto the plating over the hitch
where I will be safe, reasonably warm,
finding a comfortable position
I settle in for the night
to wake up in warm Sierra Blanca

0 comments.

Bieren’s Morning Poetry Series #8

Posted on December 13th, 2007 by Bieren Skidels.
Categories: Poetry, Prose, Orig. Literature, Creative Writing.

“Not Mine, But Yours”

birth pains of the quest
for the world to undress
I am the scientist
searching for truth

I read in the jungle
and shout in the city
I’m quiet on the mountain
and sleep in the valley

but the truth eludes me
like a snow leopard
camouflaged by God

Fear is not a substitute
excitement does me little
but conquering the unknown
is unto its own

in the library I sit and I tremble
all my strength gripping the binding
I scream at the words on the page
to surrender their secrets
become docile, and cooperate
but, it is the struggle that defines me
my everlasting quest for knowledge

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