We rotten beggar-scribes

All these voices,

talking into emptiness.

And I

shouting with them,

adding my desperate plea

to the general cacophony.

I criticize

and minimize

their efforts,

but, really,

who am I,

(shouting to be heard

as well,)

to judge?

I pine for acknowledgment

every bit as much

as the most strident

of supplicant does.

It is a desperation

that reeks so strongly

that it escapes the digital void

that spawns it.

I reek of it



Tomorrow’s dirty, too

You find these moments,

at the end of the day,

that should ‘knit-up’

and coalesce.

… but they don’t.


I sit here,

in the dark,

gently letting down

the remainder

of the day.

I will pretend

that this day

was unique

to me

and therefore


… but….

The world has no shortage

of assholes

and so I bear

no misgivings

about myself.



I’m Chris….

The rhymers

I have a problem with the rhymers, it

is something in their prose;

it’s a thing to which they won’t admit,

but I think it’s on the nose.

The metric of the meter provides

a rigid cage for them

to push and shove and fit inside

the words to match their whim.

These rules once set and locked

lay out the path ahead

but I see it as creatively blocked

as the rhyme by the nose they are led.

So free verse truly appeals to me,

my own path I must cut and make,

the rhymers say it lacks discipline, see

I think more discipline it takes.