Scribble Toys

Poems and Stuff By Griggori Tyler Taylor

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To the people who say nothing new can be written

I have yet to read a side view mirror
tell me that the things I’m running
from are as close as they look now.

I have yet to read the gospel of the 
messiah yet to come, yet to read the lines
in her eyes from the sleepless nights in a 
garden unnamed, or the songs written 
in her long forgotten native tongue.

I have yet to read the DNA of a starfish
transpose to English, or even french or 
anything outside this four rune gibberish.

I have yet to read the constitution drafted
after my dive-bar waitress’ civil war with
beauty; in that long awaited season of bloom.

I have yet to read a collection of tree rings.

I have yet to read the 19 year overdue explanation
from my mother, or the apology note after she 
realized that there was nothing she could say.

I have yet to read my unborn daughter’s vows
to a man or woman who will hold on to her words
like they were the proclamation of their freedom.

I have never read a kite becoming kindling for
funeral pyres, yet to read a guitar snapping
its own strings to become a birdhouse for homeless
robins, yet to read the headlines saying a train
vanished, tracks and all, to appear somewhere else.

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If you entered my soul you’d often hear

After “Dictonary of Obscure Sorrows


Relo Calypsum

Literal Translation: The ocean in this shell

Meaning: A deeper residual hidden beauty of something, physical or metaphysical, that can only be found when you hold it close to you in solitude and silence. A blaring sound that dodges the eardrums but is somehow still noticed by some other fraction of self. A spark of scriptural purpose and connection so heavy it feels as if it is a part of you, a reflection of your essence, as if the ocean is merely an echo of your own ears. 

See also: Catcher in the Rye

Soli Polla

Literal Translation: Widow’s wish-coins

Meaning: A form of personal value that  can not be received but only given tethered to a gift. A wealth exceeding material demeanor or usefulness, but focuses more on an unread energy stitched to the intent. A language of super-subtle magic  in a tongue unknown to the receiver, but still felt by him or her in an ethereal fashion like a foreign opera or an abstract sculpture.  

See also: Your mother’s fridge

Parelskai del L’Haze

Literal Translation: Put me in your pocket

Meaning: The desire to want to enter someone’s reality. A form of passion that exceeds weak words like love; this being because it is truer and more pure, not driven by the secret desires of self gain or longing, but by the absolute sacrifice of ones own paradigm. An act which would destroy everything one knows to be true, both inside and outside them, risking eternal emptiness for the chance to truly be with someone; to see, feel, and live what they live, pure of self and undistorted.

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The Forgiveness Machine

Last night, I snuck out of bed and wandered to our neighbors 
backyard, where under the awning their kids had designed
a time machine. I heard them talking about it through the
window this mourning when we were drinking tea and I
had to give it a spin. What was that tea, darling, mint?
Or was it chamomile? Lavender maybe? It doesn’t matter.

Well, don’t ask me how they did it. I never took that lesson
on the quantum mechanics of cardboard and crayon, nor
studied the magic of contagious imagination. But it works.

Also know, darling, your stationary drawer is more of 
a paperclip and tape drawer now. You see, I had a lot
of apology notes. In their dial of time, which strongly
resembled a hello kitty calculator and an egg timer
from a board game, I keyed in a list of regrets that
still echo within my the valley of my wavering confidence.

I’ll have you know, despite the air of stale licorice pouring
from his chapped lips, Van Gogh was more then charming.
But not quite as much as John Keats, who thought your verses 
about the meadow in Oregon were divine. By the way, darling,
I may have stolen your poetry and left it in the Victorian era.

Tesla was another story. His sparking personality left me charged.
Your right, dear, that was a terrible double entendre. But really,
does history hold any deeper a scar? Maybe it was Alexandria,
where I was shhhed so often I couldn’t even explain myself.
Not that they need me, their time machine was much better.

Listen, darling, I could go on, but in the end you’re only
going to get upset at my shenanigans, so open up that
letter I gave you when we met. It might have some answers.

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If My bedroom walls interrupted my meal at a sushi bar to talk to me about his tattoos

Each one is an emotion fossilized on a canvas, you know?
It’s like the natural timeline of life is mirrored in the creative
process, but reversed, with the intent being devised after
the painting is finished. It’s like a single frame in the film
of life, slipped out of sync and permanently remembered.

He must have noticed my peripheral glance down the bar
 and mistook it as a stare of awe or jealousy, or whatever
self absorbed folk think about the ones outside their own
fleshy walls. Reluctantly, I slipped a headphone from my
skull and half listened as he hammered his personal
life story-book pictures into my eel roll and tofu fried rice.

And this one is a concept piece. You see, the wind-chimes
are banging a love-song to the bookcase, but the desk she’s
rubbing up against just isn’t having it, you know? Now the mirror
is the snitch in the corner, relieving that the ceiling fan is the
big instigator blowing up everyone where it wants for the full show.

See this tree poster, it’s really a metaphor for reaching out
in two different spectrum; one just seeing, one just feeling.
It’s subtext, you know? Most people don’t get that. The quotes
are all scriptures, some holy books, some from the bible 
of my soul. Now the hand-prints are a new take at ancient
magic I read about once. and the hat rack is a glimpse….

But I already slipped in my ear buds and continued on
with my meal, and the new age idea that I created all
of this. I brought into this light: some way, some how.

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Heading Home

I will never forget your eyes when I said

leaving is the only thing I ever believed I was

any good at; that the years of racking up

lines in Tetris came from suitcase feng shui;

that my scotch smooth word-wise and

desire to express like this is the cognitive

trickle-down of early morning apology note

footprints to lead my past off my trail;

that “you never know what you got til it’s gone”

was the only way I knew to keep inventory;

I promise, I’ll never forget your eyes. Those

fogged glass irises proving me a fool again,

like a lover perched under the front-porch light

not even having to yell a name to the dark.

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Desire was a nice name

This is a rewrite of an old poem, but I don’t think m/any of you have read it.

The locals confirmed it was safe,

and cheap enough if you didn’t

hassle for change from machines

more stubborn than man. And true,

one doesn’t realize how heavy they

are until they have trailed from

Bourbon to Oak; which may seem

sevenfold if they fell for the hustle

and were now whiskey-warmed

and loaded. We didn’t mind, seated

pondering had become a roadside

pass-time,and it gave e time to

catch up on prayer and meditation

which,being this far from home

and money, seemed important enough.

And so, we rode the streetcar, back

and forth and again, our broke

beatnik camera-toting bodies

pumped through Nola on steel

veins,us the blood, hitting up

scattered post-tourist points for

fresh air; carrying it cross city

for release. Our inability to

decipher faulty directions had us

hopping off and on to see the

same seen- it- all drivers, unshaped

by our constant embarrassed

friendly-fire laughter. Sunset

collapsed on New Orleans, and we

were left on back-to-back bus-stops,

breathless,clutching not so pocketed

knives tightly in hand in case of stories.

But back on our streetcar, we sat

up like the locals, watching the drunks

maybe-junkie maybe-homeless poorly

rolling their own cigarettes.With lungs

full,knives now tucked-in and sleeping,

I wondered how a city so large and full

kept filling this streetcar with familiar

faces,those on the husk friendlies,

who like us, enjoyed seeing the

same well known strangers now

and then. I guess we weren’t the only

cats here in need of some fresh air.

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The Mourning Shift

Always I notice you in the distance;

sunbeams surround and frame you,

your hair contorting in waves like neon

signs left off and dark; you beacon

in odd hours. I wait through thousand

hour nights for the mourning shift.

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Thoughts while watching a dying star

I hope you went out with a bang. I hope 

that the lifeless planets dangling around you

like Boho-addicts drunk on your bright lightwine

were enlightened and consumed. I hope you 

bloomed loud like a rose or bloomed red and wild

like the heart of the one who received it. I hope

the apathetic silence of space was deafened.

The choir of your heart sings the same flamestiched

tune as mine, star. We are not so much different.

You too shout into the crowed mountains of night

hoping to hear if your sentiments are echoed

or obtained. Let my souls’ be your acoustics.

Know, star, I too am tethered to my mortality;

that tiny fast pinprick glistening in the distance.

Some nights, I feel it’s so close I could grasp it,

and be just another dot fading into the perfect night.

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For my Father, catcher of the bigger fish

My father always hangs up the phone like I forgot 
His birthday, reluctantly; like he’s testing out a joke
And I wasn’t there to get it and laugh; like he’s
Being harassed by attackers and i forgot our
telephone secret safe word for such a situation.

He always keeps things autograph brief like I got
A line here pushing behind him to talk the world
With me, and Dad, some days I do. But I am working
From home because I found how to sell my mind so
I don’t have a bossman to dig in me like you’re use to.

Dad, I really got all day to shoot the shit with you.

But you see my Dad isn’t one for misusing time.
He is too busy breaking fault lines on the tangible
Ground inside his head and bringing it to reality;
Too busy transcribing house shaped prayers to 
graph paper and reeling them up like a good catch
For the people to see; too busy tilling the field of
A better-future garden for his family. And I suppose
Some part of him expect the same for me. You see,

Mommy wasn’t human enough to care, so he was the
Only one ripping open the trash bags of hand-me-down
Habits and genetics. And as a kid reciting Nascar numbers
Was like Hail Mary’s and wearing a UK cap was a ruling
Passed before my birth I was predestined to pick up.

But I’m not like you, Dad. I have yet to bring my dreams up
From the clay and pass them life. I have never thought it would
Be nice to go fishing then went outside and dug a pond, built 
A pleasant little dock off of it, then filled it with water and fish.
Me, I would have just kept daydreaming. I have never sketched
Up, designed, and built a wrap around patio in two days, single
Handedly; I never sketched up, designed and in two days single
Handedly built anything. I have never sold a house and risked 

Everything to in the end, despite fraud, despite being robbed by
Your best friend and a woman who tried to break you; despite 
Banks taking just because they can, you still have the home you
Always wanted; this home you built with your own two hands.
This home where in the concrete is carved my name, Tyler,
Like I did a damn thing to deserve this. Many years from now, 
It will be my name people will see and remember there. Dad, 
I wish yours was there too. Because I am not like you, Dad,

I don’t deserve any trophies. I still cast my lines into the dark
Hoping for the big fish, the urban legends and grandpa stories.
I am still hoping for a world where love isn’t put in a closet,
Where money doesn’t dictate happiness and possibility, and
And where my future daughter can walk alone without wondering
If she will come home in one piece. I want my future children
To have a better world. So if my hook is swallowed, let this
Poem be the concrete, let you name be carved in the foundation
Of my craft, Ronald Wayne Taylor, a father who can turn
A page into reality like holy origami. I hold on till the day  Where
my work becomes true. That day ,Dad, when I can be just like you.

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I think a few of us were made peculiar.
 Like Maybe God ran out of ribs and clay 
and started pulling Spare parts from other 
project. That guy over there, his throat 
is a corn cob pipe preloaded. Every hit 
that sucker punches its way out is always
 a little more harsh then he means it. 

His lover has clothes iron fingers. 
She tries so hard to keep Life straight, 
but in the end, she just gets us all burned. 
We don’t mind too much, our skin is a rubix cube.
 A few outsider twists and we forget who we are.

 But my pulse is the remedy. My arms are the tape 
recorder holding up memory. My eyes are sticky notes,
 all of them, and they’re all stuck on the girl in the corner.

 The girl with the whiteout persona. The girl with the foldout 
smile. The girl with the glowwstick heart. The world tries 
to break her. But she just shines like she made of the sun.