Wednesday, March 31, 2010

joy, obsession, fixation

Happy Birthday Rene Descartes, but you had it wrong - it is not that you think and you know you are but - I feel pain, therefore I am.

So, here is what I am thinking, liberals don't know anything simply because they want to rid the world of legally owned guns - owned by responsible people, Conservatives want people to retain their rights and keep gun. Well, what does it mean that we have weaponry? simply that the government cannot become fascist without our consent. I believe the liberals want to take over and control and the old moderate conservative wants freedom. I think something of late is backwards. But this is all true.

only the poor know of love's intensity/ you, the business man, know only of mergers (marriage)/thus propagating the common ideal.// for love you merge the bodies (sex)/thus propagating life./love, joy, obsession, fixation, release/ and good sleep.

Now I don't know what I am thinking and here is a poem.

got this machine to work again poetry


acid-free paper.
jalopy typewriter that
hasn’t been oiled in years.
I’ve quit smoking, drinking et al.
mostly I wonder if I can still write
worth a goddamn.


air condenses outside and on
my water glass.
temps in the mid-sixties or whatnot.
the cat sounds and I know that he wants
but the food is upstairs and put away
the cat can find a mouse
or eat a spider, I don’t care…

there is no innocence in the thoughts
of the 30 year old man,
no matter what they tell you.
and don’t trust what women say
when they want something.

they always want something.


I have disembarrassed myself from my original family
this was a necessary move. they should call me a genius
for leaving them in affect, to suffer their own drama.

my own little family needs me to be emotionally available for them
and I can’t do that if I am tied up in fictitious drama, especially
one that disinterests so much. Maybe we’ll miss the gossip, but I
think we’ll learn to cope.


Okay, okay…

I’ll be the fucking messiah.
I don’t see that anyone else wants the job.

maybe it’s the bloody end that makes people
re-think the position.

but fuck it,
I’m not doing anything else;
might as well shit can the rest of my life
as I’ve done a bang up job so far.

I might as well be the messiah
I don’t see how anyone else is pulling for it,
and there is no nepotism now due to HR
and the EOEA.

After all,
I was right about that one thing
that once
wasn’t I.

and to wrap now – 6.

it doesn’t matter how much I do
or how courteous I am,

it is always about you.

- I wrote this.

I make no apology for myself.

Tuesday, March 30, 2010

too beautiful

Happy birthday Van Gogh, born in 1853. I wonder why all my Heroes are supposedly mentally unstable? Van Gogh was simply too beautiful for this world. I think that the mentally unstable are not so, just able to see the world with different eyes. Well, maybe only the creative ones. There are people who are effing nuts and should be locked away with electrocution on a daily basis or whatever it takes to make them become overly fond of a reclining chair and day time television.

one of my favorite paintings. 

there are a lot of favorite Van Gogh, in love with your brush stroke and colors since I turned about 4ish.
thank you.

I often wonder at the fragility of the self in the mind of others. I am not sure I care as I am able to not. Although I was kicked out of the drama club for being strange and I went to a fairly liberal HS. Anyway...
 This last one is my painting from a few years ago titled 'funeral for a friend' - I am thinking now that I should use my own paintings for my impending books cover.  I had e-mailed Chelsea Martin about it as I like what she does but now I am thinking differently. She does great work by the way which I will attest to as I've recently legally acquired a few of her books. In 'everything was fine until whatever' I like the small little poems at the bottom of the pages - not all though pages though, some are lacking fine printing. 

The photograph isn't as good as the painting, the black is reflective and has given the painting a false texture. Then again, I've seen some of my favorite Van Gogh paintings in person and those photos do not do justice to the actual painting either. I am not saying that I am a Van Gogh. I am a Jhon Baker.

Beethoven string quartets now, I cannot cope with Ludwig though. Simply his work invades me in such a manner that I lose time.

early memories of erections 

I sometimes miss the fat
lunch ladies from grade school
with their tiny feet

sporting vans and moo-moo
dresses behind cheap
pizza stained aprons.

two brunettes and a blonde
flowing hair hidden under plastic caps;
hair, which I once saw, revealed

at the grocery store with my mother;
where I accidently fawned,
where my mother scolded me

for staring, she knew
how I secretly wanted.
the thought disgusted her

but I still think of them
fondly. their great warmth
and large flesh.
- I wrote this

the thing I like most about being home is my coffee. I make the best coffee on the planet. This can be attested to by several friends, Physical terrorists (therapists), nurses, and my wife. I was trained by two different coffee companies to make coffee and I have now created my own method that is far superior for the home brewer. being out of the house is becoming increasingly difficult. This may be impounded that I don't leave the house much so I am becoming accustomed only my coffee and only my wife's food and only my opinions (and my wife's as well). That and I think most people are assholes and not caring to surround myself with assholes it is simply easier to stay at home.

Monday, March 29, 2010

strange day already - @ 8:23 AM

Strange day already.
Brothers birthday and an old friends.
Happy birthday.
I realize that I am hitting enter after full sentences and not caring.
Doctors today and such.
about to hop in the shower and go out to Hampshire Napa with my son.
today may contain no other poetry than what follows here...


I’m happy to say that
I haven’t heard from you in awhile.

I guess… how are you?
what you been doing,
are you working.
how is the family if you
have one.
is that a new car.
did you ever solve that
is your whoever still ailing,
or has the obligatory disease
killed them off yet.
is your day to day in
good griping order…
and whatever other questions
that I have accidentally left off
should now be answered in
whatever order you like.

me? I am roughly the same
and still disinterested
in this general conversation.

- I wrote this.

Sunday, March 28, 2010

"being shot is not an everyday thing but it doesn't surprise me."

The man gets shot and he simply goes on. "I'm not afraid... of anything" - Werner Herzog

he says about Timothy Treadwell (aka Grizzly Man) "he's a member of the family, he had something volatile, something broken, something dark, something inexplicably wild about him."

On universal Harmony - "I believe the common denominator of the universe is not harmony but chaos, hostility and murder."

on death - "one, I will not film a snuff film. Two, there is such a thing as dignity and privacy of an individuals death..."

about being shot at the outset of the interview - "I think bottom line is the poet must not avert his eyes. You have to take a bold look at what is in your environment what is around you even the ugly things, even the decadent things, even the dangerous things...

about being defeated by [it] "of course it is out there but so what I've done battle and I've been a good soldier..."

I couldn't help but post this once I found it. It is not about what I think about Timothy Treadwell but about what Werner says during the interview.

Saturday, March 27, 2010

awoke in my own bed

 I awoke in my own bed this morning still worn out from the previous days driving. I do not regret my life.
By this I mean that I have lived hard and worn out my body. By this I mean that I have loved fully and still love completely my wife and son. By this I mean I may be crazy and have gotten that way from various treatments, concussions, drug and alcohol abuse and there is more, but for today and yesterday I think that I do not regret my life as once I could drive California to Chicago in thirty hours and still be okay after and now two days and 1100 miles with a few wrong turns has shown my endurance and that I do not regret my life.


having endured years of pain
and feeling like a crippled

I now have this painted
deep red four walls with a

couch room where I can do all of
my writing
without any concern of troubling anyone

even at 3 am.
I take naps on the couch brought from
ikea for around 800 bucks, it

has no real comfort but does
not make my back sore and
I do not have to move while sleeping to

I have a small desk on wheels
that a typewriter sits along side

a half empty box of 20 lb
fine business paper on which I compose
all my typewritten drafts.

a book shelf mainly occupied by typewriters,
clocks, a skeleton, amithaba and
a picture of 20 cats my

son drew first for his grandmother
then his mother and finally me.
I keep a massive dictionary in case

I need to consider a word or a spelling on
a cart like the one for the typewriter but grey.
My chair isn’t that comfortable but that

is best. Too relaxed and I will not write
too much or too well if I write at all.
and that of writing,

I don’t do too much of that now
I have a place in which to perform it.

 - I wrote this

Friday, March 26, 2010


at last, I am home and there will be no interesting post today. This morning (6:30) we left Washington D.C. and arrived home to Elgin, Illinois at ten-thirty pm - A lot of miles for me now, used to be able to do twice as much in the same time but now - no, and I am proud of how I have lived my life.

more tomorrow, back to normal.


Thursday, March 25, 2010

post elements

I enjoy random; it's how we, as humans, do things. Realizing it or not.
All my thoughts are random.
all my actions are random
all seems well planed and excruciatingly thought out only because
                                                                                                             I think.


eating dinner by
two candle power
& glasses of water like

goblets of wine
between us,
we eat slowly,

laugh heartily
and are only drowning

in concern

clean skin, made
beautiful by artificial

- I wrote this

After dinner, a great coffee rubbed NY Strip and Guinness (gasp!), I can be heard exclaiming - for these prices one would think that they would know how to pre-bus a table. She shushes me, smiling, and I reply - well, if I can't be picky, on drugs and drinking, what else can I be?

Somewhere in D.C., not far from where I currently am, the Health Bill is being hotly debated. My only opinion is that it is overstepping the bounds of government to force the people into purchasing a medical plan from a corporate entity where only the benefactor is a guy in a suit, piloting his yacht, on a corporate jet, paling around with paid pussy and in general being a rich bastard, rich off a law that benefits more than just the people.

Wednesday, March 24, 2010

thinking that small, hole in the walls are better for overnights than a Hilton.

I only wish we had made reservations at some off beat hole in the wall instead of Hilton's  Hotels. The service leaves much to be desired and there is nothing close to a feeling of comfort for us.
Today we climbed the large hill to the Wright Brothers Memorial and walked the 836 feet that compromised the fourth flight. In all we walked just under three miles according to the folks at the museum. I killed myself doing so and now cannot walk without using two canes instead of the normal one. It is only 4:40 ish and I am ready to go to bed.
I love this Concerto, I only listen to Classical or Jazz when I write, if I listen to anything at all. Hearing others words only obfuscates my own intention. A lot of my work ends up have a tint of a great composer or musician to it, This is also why most of my work is not in a standard meter, Classical fans and Jazz fans usually find the beat.


caught up in
Bruch’s violin concerto
no. 1 – in g min., the adagio,
five minutes into
brings tears to eyes
swell to chest
at six minutes a near resolution
but turning, turning
at seven minutes I want
to put a gun to my head,
in my mouth,
but it is only

- I wrote this.

The ocean view in this hotel is beautiful and I think that we may stay in tomorrow, skip DC and go home.
Don't forget to visit here for my Theater Underground publication, titled 'why don't they shoot more poets?'  This is possibly my favorite title of my more recent endeavors, and I do believe it. We, as poets, need to be more of a threat to whatever it is that wishes our work to distract the populace.

Tuesday, March 23, 2010

Theater Underground

go to here and see a new poem published by Theater Underground's Blog.

Leave comments here or there in referance to that work.

I firmly suggest that you click follow on their site as they are doing some very cool things with Theater Production.
I firmly suggest that you do the very same thing here if you have not.

The poem there is one that I am fond of but you would know that by the fact that I put it out there for all to seem I very rarely post anything or put it up for publication unless I like.

okay, I have an early morning tomorrow and will probably not post again until Wednesday evening unless I don't sleep tonight in which case I will post after midnight.



John Lennon never sounded so
good as when he laid his
guitar against a live amp
walking away with Eric Clapton
following suit.

Federico Garcia Lorca never
was more poetic than
being assassinated either in a darkened
room or while gazing at the moon.

the death poems of Zen masters conveying
a perfect final message while
summing life and making
obsolete the same life.

not fearing death as it has already
located me without seeking.
is this poem the final
perfect summation of?

- I wrote this.

Lewis and Clark started their homeward journey today in 1806, two years after the journey had begun. I miss my wife's cooking and my own bed. I fell in love with the visceral Appalachians on my way out here and am living in anticipation to begin the journey through them again. but that will have to wait.

Monday, March 22, 2010

Wilmington, North Carolina

Morning, having slept in, sort of. I had a hard time sleeping after driving nearly 500 miles yesterday, this would not have been a problem years ago but age, abuse to body (internal), accidents resulting in abuse to body (external), and now chronic pain in leg from hip to large toe make even sitting painful. Today's poem is about what landed me here, sort of.
my extended family has embraced Kara so beautifully that I nearly teared. I am so glad that we made this trip, I am so glad that we can embrace once more. Tonight we dine with my second cousins and may see my Great Aunt Kate again but she has had a procedure today for her own pain that will prevent us from being together. Maybe.
Goethe died today in 1832. It is because of Goethe that I journal. It is because of a friend of mine that I do so publicly, sort of publicly. This is meant for popular consumption and my other journal is only meant for similar consumption after my untimely death, whenever that may be.


the motorcycle had been
insured, paid for and
was now just a pile of
bolts, chrome and accessories
somewhere in
some fenced off yard
where pit bulls bent
to lick their balls and
longed for tastes of
human flesh. my pile of
bolts, chrome and
was more well guarded
now then ever.

- I wrote this

Saturday, March 20, 2010

The Mad Road

"the mad road
     driving men ahead

The raw cut,
the drag,
the butte,
the star,
he draw,
the sunflower in the grass...

ditches by the side of the road
O can se a bug playing in the grass

The crazed voyageur
of the lone automobile
presses forth his eager insignificance
in noseplates and licenses
into the vast promise of life -
the choice of tragic wives.

telephone poles
toothpick time

the mad road
     driving men ahead
the mad road"

All those words are Jack Kerouac's. I claim none of them, I choose these from The Book, for their match to my trip the closest and most poetic when together. So the arrangement is mine and it belongs here but know that these are not mine and they belong to my hero, Jack Kerouac.

we leave now and didn't sleep enough last night. We should have made love but we allowed tiredness and the unceasing need of sleep to dissuade us.
bad decision.

today's meditation is this. All religion lends itself to leaders more bent of terror than love and peace. My belief is no different.
1995: AUM subway attack
Top leaders of AUM Shinrikyo (Japanese: “AUM Supreme Truth”), a Japanese Buddhist sect founded in 1987 by Asahara Shoko, released nerve gas into a Tokyo subway this day in 1995, killing 12 people and injuring thousands.

This ignores all the precepts. This ignores everything I've ever read. This isn't what I practice.
I practice poetry. I study to be a buddha and know how imperfect I am. I am a terrible example.

now two non-haiku -

The great Zen patriarchs are
     painted with beards;
Whether they are frozen in snow
     or begging for alms.

- I wrote this

     Always time, all
illusion, a phantom or dream
      already passing.

- this one too.

Have a great weekend.
- Jhon

Friday, March 19, 2010


So, I am going on a vacation. My first since driving to California those many years ago. My family's first vacation as well. Why do I relate this before anything has actually occurred? well, the posting may be sporadic, and I think that Sat and Sun are out as we will be on the road and no telling about Wi-Fi areas or my tiredness once we get to the hotels which do have Wi-Fi, if I am too tired the writing is schizophrenic, enjoyable it may be but not representative. 
So, today what is there? I need to take my Tom Tom and shove it up Tom's ass as I can't seem to get it to function properly and so we are going  old fashioned and using maps. Reading Maps is a lost art but both Kara and I can do it with varying degrees of success. When I get home from the trip I think I'll take my .45 and see what kind of damage it does to the navigator.

Forget that the kitchen is so full of knives

Forget that the kitchen is full of knives.
You are so serious and
I worry because I love you.
The watches are broken with dead batteries
filling the catchall in the hallway;
how do you use up so much nickel-hydride?
You are so beautiful and I
masturbate when I think of you,
specifically on the couch,
in mid-afternoon when you are at work.

oh yeah, thanks for the paper.

- I wrote this

Thursday, March 18, 2010

this is/this was

Last night while ingesting a handful of prescription pain killers and mood stabilizers; my wife sat on the bed, beautiful and alluring, pushing her back on the bed and kissing long passionate depth, we made love, the kiss was among our best the groping was tantalizing , the visceral connection was enigmatically wondrous. In all the world last night there was not another two as deep and powerful as we.
and they say marriage is the killer of intimacy but no, no, no, it is the conjointment that only the profoundness of we know. My wife saved my life, she was the turning point between train wreck and the self I am. All my poetry is for her, this one is also dedicated to her.

this is/ this was
            to my wife, Kara

here, this is/ this was
the scene of our love
left only now to misshapen sheets
and my hands on your hands
    hands of a body
    your body
    eyes of windows immensity
    after evenings hour
    your moonlit being

here, this is/ this was
the scene of our love
and configuration of sleeping bodies
     head to head
     on cased feather pillows
dreamt singing voices
     of your gravity
     after midnights hour
and my obeisant being

this is
this was
the scene of
out love
now a windowless immensity
after mornings hour
and your vanished being

- I wrote this

Wednesday, March 17, 2010


ticking of a clock

wife chopping up
vegetables, going through
cabinets and drawers,

cooking dinner with
great efficiency.
the child playing his

computer games and
the cats meowing for some
attention or fresh water.

the furnaces turn on and off
heating a room to 67 d Fahrenheit
(19 d Celsius)
somewhere outside there is

the sound of radios playing
modern urban music
the engine braking of trucks

coming to stop on
or slow toward Shales Pkwy
on Rte. 20.

or the other way around.
it drives men mad.

- I wrote this.

New added feature, now you can follow this blog via face book. Look for the widget on the left column and click follow on either the blogspot one of the facebook one. Llike all people wanting to be famous, my happiness is measured by the amount of followers I have. Joking, I am never happy. Happiness is like the theater candy 'good & plenty' - this is only true before you open the box, when you invariably find that where they can pass for good you always want one more or maybe two more, but there was not "plenty" available without spending another seven USD - which considering how much journals pay for poetry these days is a lot of fucking money.
That is a really long plea.
Last night I slept well, taking only my normal amount of medications without supplementing with anything herbal or over the counter or out the back door. I hope that this means I will sleep well agian tonight. But, as Bob Dylan once said -
"hope is just a word that maybe you said
maybe you heard
down some windy corner
down some winding curve." (last thoughts on Woody Guthrie)

how short is this life?

we are still in mourning over Todd Moore. Go there for more thoughts.

Tuesday, March 16, 2010

Todd Moore

At this, my heart breaks.

Todd Moore - Outlaw Poet 1937 - 2010

Thank you for the words, thank you for the poetic guidance.

going home,
    going home.

I don't know.

 I don't know, I've never known, but, here you go. Post comments, follow prodigiously, dance or don't.
Guardame Las Vacas is one of my favorite tunes to play. This isn't me but it isn't bad either.


she looked down to kill the fatted calf
then lay her body beside the animal.
no longer filled with hunger,
no longer needing.

she looked down to kill the fatted calf
and her feet carry her, she carry her weapon;
then lay her body beside the animal,
knuckles stained with blood.
no longer needing,
no longer hungry.

she looked down to kill the fatted calf
and laid her weapon next to the animal.
she lay her body beside them both,
her knuckles stained with the animals scent,
no longer filled with hunger.
no longer needing.

she looked down to kill the fatted calf
then lay her body beside the animal.
no longer needing to eat,
no longer hungry.

she looked down to kill the fatted calf
and rose her weapon to it.
the blood staining her knuckles,
the fatted calf falling to the floor;
she lay down her weapon next to it.
bloodied her knuckles in its flesh.
the demolition soaking into her clothes,
she rested her body beside the animal.
no longer filled with hunger.
no longer needing.

it’s death merciless. her
remorse washed away with soap.

- I wrote this

Monday, March 15, 2010

I believe it to be Monday

Monday morning, as I am an insomniac I've decided that posting this at 3 am is the best thing for me to do at 3 am.
This poem was published here not that long ago, I've wanted to repost it as the line breaks were removed from it for some reason. I hold no grudge but it reads better this way. It's one of my favorites which probably means it isn't very good. I think it is, the life forms looking through the windows remain silent on it while others have expressed interest but they don't count as you can never expect people who care for you to be honest in such matters.
I am thinking about why more poets aren't crazy these days, I think the answer to be simply that they are not poets. It is believed in the science community that about 95% of Poets (as opposed to people who write poetry to get laid) have a diagnosable mental disorder - while only 28% of the sciences. (professor Arnold Ludwig, MD, "method and madness in the arts and sciences")
I am not Catholic but my favorite of the Saints is the relatively unknown - Juan Grande Pecador - which translates as - John The Great Liar.
I am responsible for the translation of de Andrade's poem at the beginning, if there are any errors in this wonderful poem they are all mine and not his.


“and now, José
the party’s over,
the lights out,
the people left,
the night turned cold,
and now, José?
and now, you…”
-    Carols Drummond de Andrade (trans. J. Baker)


I sketch umbrellas to
and that I am tired of
being only a man.

Hungry all the time,
eating  avocado chicken
and tuna fish.
Drinking only coffee,
and sketching umbrellas
looking out from
third floor

Closing mouth to
emulate good men, wise
to not debate with
women, enjoy
dreaming of youth but
disappointed in memory.
I am tired from this
and being only a man.

Naked and not
   entirely unbeautiful.
lights on, off,
standing, lying down.
Showing scars from
deep wounds.
Innumerable on my,
arms, chest, legs.
Chicago, Seattle,
South California tattoos,
trying to define shape
and color of self.
I am tired of this body
and being only a man.

I sketch Umbrellas
to remind.


Juan Grande,
I am your son but
you are tireless.
Juan Grande,
I am you student.
from looking, or
searching or
or being
only a man.
Juan Grande,
how do you cope?

Juan Grande, I
use a typewriter because
it does not correct me and
it is faster then pencils.
Juan Grande,
I cannot be a
Saint because I am not dead.
I am not dead
tho’ I do not feel lucky
because of it.

I am only a man,
and in that, only
your progeny.

Juan Grande,
not nameless but
unknown father.
How is it that that
you made confession,
how is it that
you came to be a saint.

I sketch umbrellas
to remind,
and that I am tired
from being only a man.

I recognize
death, its face
and proximity. I
do not regret my life or
that I am only a man.
I am only a man
sketching umbrellas
to remind.


I am you lover
entering the bedroom,
distressing the bed.
Not dissimilar to tilting
at windmills trying
to surmount destiny,
or hallucination.

Woman, I am tired
from being a man,
cleaned body washed
on rocks by the shore.
I am tired from this.
Incapable of more
and incapable of less.

it is late now and
you are still with me.
Tho’ I’ve offered nothing,
tho’ I will offer nothing.
You are still with me
tho’ I am broken
and resplendent with
anger. Tho’ I clench fists
at phantoms and shadows.
Tho’ I am only a man,
I sketch umbrellas
to remind.


and lastly.

Stopping for a moment
to collect my thoughts.
I think of this attempt
at beauty. It is not an
attempt at describing your aversion
to be naked in the confines of
a shuddered apartment.
It is an attempt to show that,
even tho’ rarely thought about
or admitted,
nakedness is not hideous.

After all,
I am naked and not
entirely unbeautiful.
Only tired and
sketching umbrellas to

 - I wrote this.

I've noticed that, as where I don't look at the keyboard while I type, I make a lot of mistakes while typing in the dark. Please indicate corrections that are necessitated by this lack of ability.

Saturday, March 13, 2010

Keep calm

 Waking up this morning from barely sleeping, a little here, a little there; the overrated nature of sleep is well known but not well appreciated.
I read in Theater Undergrounds blog (look for link to left) that my pleading to be included on their page of local sensitive artist types has worked so well that I've been invited to place some of my words there. Obviously a bit pink in the cheeks and thankful at this I will comply with said request. and gladly.

british war advert advising the best thing to do while the bombs are falling around your head. While this has nothing to do with the above or below I've been dying to post it as the advice is sound. No sense in losing your head while others are literally losing theirs all around you.

and so I sit,
in front of you with nothing else

and so I sit.

on a bench drawn with broken pen.
tapping with my fingers through
the rain of last night.

October weather warm,
boots sole cleaned from
wet sidewalk walking.

and so I sit,

in front of you
with nothing else.

- I wrote this


have a weekend. - J.

Friday, March 12, 2010

Social networking

This morning I am brought to thought about social networking.
In the quest to become a nationally known poet I have been getting more involved on line with people who are in various scenes having to do with writing. I recently befriended this guy who immediately sent me a link to his video about facebook, it isn't in your face funny but humorous commentary and I loved it. Watch the video.

Anyway, here is my poem in reference.

social networking

Walking down the hall in
an apartment complex

toward one-eleven. all the
doors are opened and

the gathered people talking,
some arguing, some passionately,

some with rehearsed discourse.
in one, a throng of party goers

clashing drunkenly to heavy
bumps bumps bumps.

sampling each conversation,
invited to none,

I cannot resist a comment
at each door.

- I wrote this

Thursday, March 11, 2010

it's thursday

woke up this morning and it was pouring rain, welcoming spring I slept in late late. I had dreams that although I was married with a boy and my age, I was naked in High School, but in dream I really didn't care.

My older brother hit me in the head with a golf club,
while I was six, according to my mother,
broke open my skull,
according to the golf club.

Now I blame him for everything. like the instability.

- I wrote this, just now but based off a lifetime of experience.


she was a bookstore bathroom  o d
fast food joint, racetrack, OTB
bar, et cetera.
are all expected;
but she had to be different.
pretty & young, pretty young
aged well and old all look the same
in the county morgue.

- I wrote this

Wednesday, March 10, 2010


Well, Corey Haim is dead, an OD I guess but I am not going to write about that. He was 38 and knew better, he fucked up, I am unaffected.
What I did think about today is the first time I learned about the Nazi concentration camps. I was quite young, maybe sex or seven, when I saw a tattoo on the forearm of a somewhat random person in a restaurant. I asked about it and learned of the artrocity that this person had gone through. Later in life my sister married into a family contained another survivor, Helena, a wonderful, funny, beautiful lady whose life had seen more horror that I could ever live through. What she told me and witnessed is/was beyond the pale, I had nightmares for weeks and still occasionally remember in horror what she experienced. I will save you the description. These things pain the human in me that shares the same chemical makeup as those killed, tortured, and made witness (it is these my heart breaks most for) - I am also made of the same things as the murderers, torturers, the ugliest of men - I cannot reconcile these things and am unsure that anyone can. Buddhism teaches us that we are all the same, all seeking the same ends, all made of the same things and in the end all our bodies are is a combination of aggregates that make up a reclamation and waste disposal machine. I imagine the monsters that created Dachau and the people held there all had to shit and piss now and then, only the prisoners who were told that work would set them free had to live in theirs. Some of us embody the processing plant that we are better than others.
On today's date in 1933 the first camp opened in Dachau, truly an infamous day if there ever was one.
Thank you for reading, I had to get that out of my mind.

the moon and sky

the moon and sky:
those are my freedoms now that
they take my freedoms.
the moon and sky:
those are my freedoms now that
there is dispensation.
the moon and sky:
those are my freedoms now that
my voice is giving out.
the moon and sky:
those are my freedoms now that
impertinent children are crying.

the moon and sky:
those are my freedoms now that
there is deprecation.
the moon and sky:
those are my freedoms now that
winter defines the lily.
the moon and sky:
those are my freedoms now that
wars are fought again.
the moon and sky:
those are my freedoms now that
the term ‘freedom’ is censored.

the moon and sky:
those are my freedoms now that
five in the afternoon is forgotten.
the moon and sky:
those are my freedoms now that
I am in pains bondage.
the moon and sky:
those are my freedoms now that
I may be no-ones child.
the moon and sky:
those are my freedoms now that
they take my freedoms.

- I wrote this.

Tuesday, March 9, 2010

found written on a napkin at 10:32 pm (in my hand)

Life is a various separation
    of sordid identifications.
Life is a conglomeration of
assorted impersonations.

Death is a feel good retrospective
    of impersonal dogma.
Death is a bombastic experience
    of invented nostalgia.


- I wrote this, another 'found' poem as the title indicates. Also, this was previously published by GSR about a year ago. Thanks to them.

A few things, first - Kara and I are starting work on my book to come out this year. Tentatively titled - "hands on the hips..." - this is a shortening of the original title which was to be, hands on the hips, wet lips on the warmth - I still may go with that and the ISBN is already registered with that title. Easy to change tho. We are hoping that it does well and have been planning the signings and book release party. More info to come on this.
second, I am going to ask plainly, pleadingly for everyone who reads me to forward this blog and, in general, advertise for me - is it easier to ask - what are you doing to help me become the most famous poet in America? One cannot do this on the merit of his writing alone - we must have believers and readers who sift through the myriad of other so called poets to get to us real poets who bleed on the page, who cannot sleep at night thinking about the set of words we are working on. I am open to readings, and whatever. 
Thank you much.

Monday, March 8, 2010

Sunday, March 7, 2010

RIP Mark Linkous


go here.

why do only the brightest/the genius have this sort of Chaos reign in their heart/head.
May the pain be past, may the chaos be calmed. May your family, friends find peace.

          - For those Hors de Combat

not a man, but
      a boy.  perhaps
next to open windows where
birds come to sing, where
wind & breeze comes to play;
in loose curtains where moon
lies gently tickling the arms
of youth and kissing the forehead
of prayer.

here, the faces of clocks tell no hour.
here, our eyes & lips have no looks.
here, the silence of childhood exists.
here, those cloths are at your feet
and not dreams.

- I wrote this

a flood of tears for Mark Linkous.

Saturday, March 6, 2010

found poem

I wanted to look you in the eye

and hold you

to fuck you, to know you
but thankfully
        you broke
        my heart

there is no poetry in you.
there is nothing left of
the wordless moment
so this is NOT spoken word
but merely a poem

and wherever I am 
you are on
the other side
of the room

- I wrote this

at least I think I did, pretty sure, it was located in the margins of a book from off my shelf. I bought the book new and the poem written in pencil was written in my hand. I am also known for writing in books and more so, writing poems in books so I think I can be as sure as anything about this being my poem. The only problem I can see is this - when did I write it - who is it about, if anybody as it is likely to be written about a character in the book as it is about a living human. I am willing to bet that I am able to sum it all but I am unwilling.

one hand moves swiftly against the other.
a final act of

- J.

Friday, March 5, 2010

at the waist

right works crazed with manic energy
and we stay up late for them
the good ones go young and unpublished
rest of all stick around trying to be young
and published
thoughtless notes running through the anus
and mouth crammed with exotic mysteriousness
our strange bearded father now dead of cancer
leaving nothing unpublished and us wanting

grand exit – stage left
and we bow

- I wrote this

Thursday, March 4, 2010


but never lovers.

but never someone who broke your nose.

- I wrote this

Wednesday, March 3, 2010

two for today

Today I am feeling spiky, might try to get the little stingy bastard in the corner once and for all. Or maybe I'll lie down on the floor and pretend none of this is happening while I try to avoid the electric touch of humans.


the notebooks,
IBM Selectric IIIs,
et cetera
these are my shields,
protecting me from the world
from you -
My words are the weapons
I utilize
bludgeoning the audience
until they bleed from ears,
mouth, fingertips,
and eyes.

- I wrote this, just now actually in HTML's commentary.

I like to shoot from the hip. It seems to work better.


"Do not do the slightest thing
now that the wise would later censure."
 - from the Sutta Nipata

This Buddhist teaching is probably the closest teaching to my heart. To me it says to look at each of our actions and consider all the ramifications of such.Even what seems to be positive assistance can be in retrospect quite nefarious without intention.
humm, I'll have to think about this awhile again.

Written in 2008 and unfortunately still a timely comment.

meditation on war consciousness

It’s War,
Do you accept?
without question
what do you offer
your children

   do you accept
without agenda
offer prayers
market share
It’s War.

do you accept?
indispensable propaganda
it’s war,
do you accept.
without question
without agenda
this that we offer
can only be as now here
do you accept?

without question.

- I wrote this.

Tuesday, March 2, 2010

Untitled (the sane)

The sane point fingers
    to keep themselves appearing sane
    to stay their definition
The glamorous point bejeweled fingers
    to keep their proportions
    as the definition of beauty

Well, stop pointing your
    sticky fingers at me
I will not obsess your definitions
I am comfortable in my own
and deformed self

- I wrote this

This was previously published in GSR. I was thinking this morning about my deformed self while I was waiting for the meds to kick in and naturally my mind went to this poem again.
So, enjoy and as always - feel free to comment, question and what have you.

Monday, March 1, 2010

Meditation on the death of a solider

life ended abruptly by the
bullet of another's weapon
paid for by a master neither
one of you has ever met
weapon that was cleaned
with as much care as yours
and placed firmly in hand by
another country such as yours
and without thought, fired to
bring ends to ideals and have
certain glory from gods or God
fired a bullet that ended it’s
own journey in your body
your body, which lies there
weapon in hand that surely would
have ended the bullets owner
if given the chance

this is the death that you have chosen

as if picked out from a catalog
listed under ‘means of dispatch’
and you nation mourns forgetting
your choice
never blaming the decisions
that placed you there
yours and your masters

but I am colder and I cheer
not at your death but
at the end you were able to choose
for yourself
I am not so lucky and
I will die unknowing from where
the bullets came

- I wrote this