on the corner

on the corner
across the street
sun beating down on my face
and I do not torture myself
over shortcomings


 - Hoc Scripsi

stunned and lovely

I'm suppose to be writing the most perfect of poems but am sitting around doing nothing. I'm disgusted by the news on the wire and prose badly written meant to move us to tears. but this is nothing that we haven't seen before this is nothing that I've not written before, it's not my birthday so there is no excuse and the book on my nightstand rests with the mark on page 309, SO I trade in bonds to pay for new landscaping and feel really stupid and wonder what I will hear next but not from who.

most of all I really want to be stunned and lovely.

fuck the songs that say differently, it is never easy unless it is. Standing out strongly but in fear and not beautiful but gently. It was last Friday night and suspecting that this would be here like it is and I'm not saying goodbye.

here's to life!
here's to life.
viva la vida -
a star, quarter,
four fingers of Johnnie Walker
chocking back the innocence
to truly gain perspective.

 - Hoc Scripsi

a poem not about E.E. Cummings

Cummings wrote some wonderful stuff
about the prostitutes of France.
painting them remarkably deteriorated and
painfully beautiful;
the fragrance of nightly breath enough
to usher tears into existence.

so many,
I’ve painted and/or sketched words
about were this.
more we’ve made great who
were not, some
lent away greatness, now
insignificant.

never have I been a whole lover.
never have I known to give at such a level.
only that I have been the prostitute
in some sense of sense;
never the sexual admirer
that was E.E. Cummings.

 - Hoc Scripsi

sometimes I miss smelling like an ashtray

In the interests of full disclosure, I don't smoke anymore (much) nor drink (much) as it crosses badly with the medications. I've simply replaced those addictions with others that aren't as cuddly.  

musing

the bottle says,
La Cerveza Mas Fina
actually, I couldn’t
agree more.

my preference is with lime
and I am not alone on this.
or if I am then why does
the store stock them together?
it’s like cigarettes.
20 class A cigarettes…
‘A’ class cigarettes,
I couldn’t agree more.

- Hoc Scripsi

So, the lawn will not mow itself no matter how much I concentrate on wanting it to. I cannot delay it as the heat will surely kill me later and I've got to see the doctors anyway.
I must be kept medicated and safe.
though without the meds I would gladly start drinking and smoking again.

to kill poets

the poet’s word albatrossed
to the secret villain,
hanging on like stink
from decadent fish.

this is our RSVP, their
invitation to KILL POETS.
not with censorship,
with bullets.

 - Hoc Scripsi

I have a minor obsession with being assassinated, I think I've mentioned this before but sometimes we all repeat ourselves don't we. Maybe in a past life, somewhere in Argentina or El Salvador I was disappeared permanently. The victim of some nations dictator extreme rendition.
Or maybe I was a cuddly bunny rabbit in hunting season. If so I hope that my name was Theodore and the family that ate me enjoyed the meal.
whatever I was, now I am a poet and consider it a poets duty to be a threat to both the vox popoli and the powers that be.


this is how I get after storing things in the attic, small confined space and all.

again

I like to throw this poem out there every now and then - not only because this blog is named because of it.


the platitudes of willful resemblances

some things have a harder time changing than others.
sleep comes hard,
now we recognize, 
meds and allergy pills, a
little beer and hopefully soon to sleep
and dream along the platitudes
of willful resemblances.

 - Hoc Scripsi


juggling plastic butter knives and listening to Philip Glass - I'm sure neither is allowed on an airplane if only for their murderous properties. Now as I sit and read at night I will have to worry about extreme rendition performed at the hands of the CIA or the Homeland Security administration all for giving the idea that plastic knives and Philip Glass can be used for such devious things as brutality and terror.

Lately I've remembered a poem by Emily D. that I once memorized and can recall still. '"He scanned it" - one of the 1700 or so poems she had written and not thrown away. This must be in the top of my all time favorite poems and not just for its lyrical beauty or simplicity.

the mind often amazes me with what it chooses to recall at any given time and thrust forth into the openings of self for realization.

I switch to Beethoven as I do not want to injure myself.

Thursday

untitled (I sit down to write)

1.
I sit down to write.
and the longing that comes out is immensely
distressing.
disparate writing and thought,
the thoughts are why I am driven here.
it’s either this or murder, rape and drugs.
good drugs;
illicit drugs, but
less the psychiatric form.

paper awash with malaise and frankness
but I get tired of it and just sit for awhile,
watching TV and creation.
but I won’t do anything with it.
may cut myself up more and wonder why;
ultimately it doesn’t matter.

2.
I waste more ink on this then anything.
I could be writing about birds or sick
children.
I could be writing about pavement and
street car fantasy races with a blonde
cheerleader type waving handkerchiefs.
I should be writing about the mundane,
that is what life has delivered me to.
books, children, sex, good food, conversations.
it isn’t all bad. I don’t miss the street living
or sleeping in the back of my car.
I don’t miss the nights without memory at bars
I don’t miss the anonymous sex and waking to
find there are no eggs for breakfast.
I don’t miss anything about school except the schedule of it.
I don’t miss the hard drugs and hard dealers,
or the late night lab experiments resulting
in a high and extreme weight loss.
I don’t miss not having food and not knowing
when the next days meal will come from.
I don’t miss the sexual abuse or neglect.
I don’t miss playing in bands or writing badly in
strip clubs hanging around even worse writers.
all of us thinking that we were going to be the next
HD or Buk or Lorca
no one really wants to be the next Lorca;
or maybe that is what I really strive for;

to be shot.

nearly midnight

It's nearly midnight here, outside Chicago and I've written nothing today, nothing is two lines which may or may not get me in and allow me to write something.

in the room with my murderer

Lately thoughts have been churning about constraints and how it may help get me out of this writing malaise I've found myself mired in. As a poet there are always constraints but some have been used to their natural end. There are others that must be delved into now to take the word to it's next logical step.

such heavy air in early summer and in
the southwest it's drier

This is the writers bondage, there is no free will as even free form is constraining as even flow of consciousness is constraining. this is all that is going to be written right now, this is all there is for the taking.

take it.

false start

False start, a half a page into the post and it was junk. False starts are a pretext to a much grander illusion. That is to say that what remains may be more profound or less depending on your attachment to the former beginning which was wholly parsing The Doors in a historical context. I gave up on it when it fell into the realm of personal opinions. A singular belief is unimportant when it comes to the historical context.

Another false start, writing about constraints and then realizing that the author Lily Hoang recently wrote about the same thing in the same manner as was being laid out here. Not being into intellectual property theft and feeling it best to stick with the theme, it was erased in it's entirety.  Another half page gone.

But this is the problem, what do you want to see here? what words do you need to read? a photo that makes you cry or laugh or sigh and go awww - and here is the moment where you project those wishes
on this blank space.



















there, your life should now be complete.

the poem and reflection are both reflections but unrelated.

Father's day was calm, relaxing. Watching favorite movies, reading a book and eating the best homemade meal on the planet. Went out to the shop and looked for a lost part for the better part of an hour when I decided that yesterday was not the day for getting all worked up. Played games with my son and reflected. 
There are three things that I am that I love being, a poet, a father and a husband (in no discernible order mind you). There are other things that I am that I could do without maybe or maybe not but nonetheless I do not like them as much as the other three. We look for the constants which medication does not erase, many things wax and wane with time and in the constants we find out ourselves defined/refined.


the medications make me sweat when I am not sedentary.
Years ago I found I could no longer lie, once I had taken a Buddhist vow. When I try I lose my words and cannot speak what I so desperately want to lie about. Think about it like this - say you look like a whore in a particular dress and ask me how you look - the right answer is 'sexy' or the non-committal 'good' - what comes out of me is - 'well, you look like a whore.' which inevitably ruins the whole evening.
with the language that I wear as a skin I am still able to word things that they are truth but convey nothing of the meaning of said truth. "you look ready for friday night.'
or just be objective - 'wow, how much does that cost?' 
but as I said, it would come out of me as "well, you look like a whore."




sweat

my body stinks, sweat beads
soaked my shirt and slacks.
I changed my boxer briefs and socks
but should’ve taken a shower and
changed all my clothes.

I don’t mind so much when
the stink gets to others
if they’re offended, so what;
it’s when the scent
offends me.
distracting!

there is a lot of day to get
through still
before a bath of shower can
be employed.
for now I’ll have to bear it
and so will everyone else.

 - Hoc Scripsi

Father's day weekend

for the next month I am only submitting to journals that do not accept electronic submissions.
unless I am otherwise asked or invited personally to submit somewhere that prefers the electronic medium.
this is not to support the USPS directly but it has that as an added benefit.
I somehow believe that rejections and acceptances experienced viscerally are more emotionally impacting.

Tomorrow is Father's day so I will not be posting. I've only ever asked for things for my son for F.D. so this year I asked for him to draw me something.

To all fathers who are good at the job - Happy Fathers day.
all fathers that suck at it - go shoot yourself in the thigh with a .357 and try harder.

coming home

let’s get out the I-Ching
and roll the dice.

get our your taroc pack
and deal aces and eights.

get your sideways glance
at the moon, we’re
coming home.

 - Hoc Scripsi

I support any literary magazine that has the good taste to publish my work.

no matter what color

no matter what color
the walls are painted
they are always red.
imposing.
masterful.
crushing.
not even an electric
guitars blues can
penetrate.

 - Hoc Scripsi

I read the comics everyday, I find it starts the day off on a positive and sound note. This is what keeps me from going mad when the shoelace breaks, that and I wear side-zip boots.

the dead do not hear the life insurance checks being written

I’ve never been worth much.
not even to those who call
me friend or lover. once,
I was worth more dead than alive.
this isn’t too odd, tho it is
strange, in that, I had no
life insurance at the time.
now that I do, I expect to be
killed at any moment.

 - Hoc Scripsi

During Breakfast I discover that New Zealand grows some pretty terrific apples.
it's taste is as there were thousands of tiny dancers on my tongue all exploding in champagne bliss.
The New Zealand Fuji certified organic must be the gift of gods to man in terms of gifts of apples and as far as that can go to curry our favor.

I'll allow the poem to speak for itself

PISS OFF

ya know, I
don’t want this to be a
tit for tat kind of thing, but,
it’s been bugging me lately.
I mean to say that I am
not losing sleep, but,
what in the hell have I
done to put you off?
there are a myriad of ways
that I could have or might have
or probably have or what have you. what?
but but but there is not
enough information in this
equation to sum it. so,
just tell, spill, let it be known,
there may be apology, there may not,
there may be a laugh. what motivates people
always makes me laugh, or cry, or cringe, or
just be open mouth surprised but normally
the laughter takes over, as motivation is
mostly funny in a funny way for funny sake,
but, back on point; the plot now needs to have
resolution and you need to allow the - it - to
see light and maybe get a little water.
there may, after all, be a little sympathy.
or
or
or
just fuck it,
burn the letters.
kiss off, piss off, but,
give my love to your wife.

 - Hoc Scripsi

Hostel

old poem. More than ten years and written before the most beautiful woman took up residence in my heart and head. K., the one who accepted and encouraged, breathed life into my poetry and being, who to this day fills me with love and makes it easy to get out of bed, makes it easy to get into it as well.
So, this was written at a particular low moment in life where I was the next to wander out of the hotel. Take it as you wish, no flash photography please.


All the beautiful
women have
left my
hotel.

All the beautiful
women have
left my hotel.

All the beautiful women

have left

my hotel.


 - Hoc Scripsi

I want to see a bull gore a toreador

There are some days when I just don't have it in me to bring it out. Not to say that there isn't ideas or thoughts but to say that I don't really want to lay these out on a table to be seen. Some days the cards are best left in the deck.

I want to see a bull gore a toreador.

I only ever pray when an
ambulance goes by
other wise,
I don't believe.

it's madness but
why can't it be cancer?
something nice and clean?

I hope this made you spill your tea.

 - Hoc Scripsi

the mailman

the mailman arrives
     (picking up and
     leaving bills letters
     or circulars always addressed
     to resident)
and departs
escaping my observation

 - Hoc Scripsi

on poetry

This morning started with Mahler but has nicely moved on the Bach, as nothing else would do.
Last night I was kept up by the question - is poetry really subjective? and I think I've a simple answer for this question - a resounding no and yes. Poetry has two distinct levels of quality, the first is where most people stay in fear of being wrong - the truly subjective, do I like it? which has no bearing on whether or not it is a good poem. this can be anything from being able to relate to it to liking the way it sounds. on the other side there is the measurement of academia - is it a good poem regardless of my personal connection to it? this looks at the treatment of everything from meter (if present) to symbolism. A great example of this is Emily D.'s 'Because I could not stop for death' - great poem on both levels and you do not need to know about the massive amount of symbolism and adherence to meter to enjoy it as a poem, it speaks to a great many people who don't know that the ride with death passes through her life from youth to old age (which she never made it to, eventually slamming on the brakes for death). It is also a sound poem. There are a great many poems out there that I do not care for but are great poetry and I am able to look at them from these two angles. In my taste and opinion a bad poem is a bad poem but there are a great many people who truly enjoy bad poetry. I have yet to like a poem that is bad but yet to like all the poetry that is sound. This has a single exception that I know of - my own poetry, I am unqualified to judge it's academic and subjective merit and at times I hate my own work so I leave that to others.
this may sound as though I am saying all academic poetry is good - far from it, most poetry tries to be too academic and fails in a spectacular way, this is where a lot of poetry is lost in the realm of bad. When the poet writes what they like it tends to come out shining on all fronts, when the so called, self called poet writes it tends to not work on either level. but there are no strict rules that govern poetry so this makes it harder and the reason why people shy away from it in terms of it's poetic merit.

As always I retain the right to change my mind.

without title

the sky is not bearable without the sun and songbirds.
the sky is not bearable without  moon and million suns.

I once had a heart

Love regards people as mystics, casting their powers of future perception against another torrid lovers premonition.
The diseased mind finally discovers the secret of happiness but it is not accepted so it makes those practicing it miserable.
dreamt last night about playing an electric guitar with heavy use of the tremolo bar, making the strings ride against the fret board, I've tried this many times and have been unable to produce the sounds the dream tells me I want.
the medication levels the mind while making it harder to express these same thoughts. though the end product may be better, it is harder. Four daily medications make the writing better, the sex better, and anger better.
also, they make the moments of staring into apace more profound in quality, more consistent in quantity.
I can hear song birds congregate next door where we've recently placed a bird feeder. It is always easier to give away things that require upkeep then try to have them around your property, like said bird feeder or pets.
the reemergence of insanity lost me most of my friends but those that stayed get to enjoy the cure. Ironically they became my friends before the psychosis went into remission and left when it came out of remission.
I am not lost without them.
I am simply unburdened of them and their troubles.

I've decided to end this one by saying, _________________.

this is my star

waking up slowly today, partially unable to think while I gently sip my coffee. The mind races with things which resolve into nothing concrete enough to really form a post around so I start writing and now the reader knows how this has so far come to have been written.

this is my star
           bewildered and
     hanging over our
     heads
this is my star

I am slightly unnerved by thought. I am slightly unnerved by having to mow the lawn later today. I am slightly unnerved by voices traveling around the house at fifty-five mph. I am slightly unnerved by the squeak my shoes make from my habit of bouncing my leg instead of grasping it and crying out in pain. I am slightly unnerved by otherwise kind editors not letting me know if my work has been accepted or not. I am slightly unnerved by the plethora of poems that sit unfinished next to my IBM Selectric III. I am slightly unnerved by the adversaria that my cork board has become.

this is my star
           vainly wishing and
     wishing on planets
     and suns
this is my star

- Hoc Scripsi

meeting today

I've a noon-ish meeting today that will accomplish everything it needs to accomplish. I still don't feel like attending. It is raining outside and it started right after I awoke, had it began a few minutes earlier I would still be asleep but this is not the stars alignment this morning. As it is I've been awake for nearly two hours and have done little more than stare at the bedroom ceiling and the blank composition screen on the iMac.
plans for today had included mowing the lawn and the whacking of weeds with a freshly repaired week whacker, (I enjoy large engine repair but loathe small engine repair, I was tempted to replace it with a better machine.) this is now postponed until tomorrow when the sun will be shining and the air will be thick with new mosquitoes.

I found this poem in a publication from ten years ago, I had forgotten that I published anything then. I was sure that I was still wearing sunglasses indoors and angst painted on my boots, but apparently while searching my old pen name I came across about 40 published works - most of them are terrible and this one had a little revision but it very well may be kept. I've had this experience so often and it remains true to many stages of my life.



hospital room

Hospital room
3 a.m.
can't tell if I'm awake
or asleep.
Two clicks to on and
I watch the talking head
No sound,
blurry and can't
Seem to locate my glasses.
So it goes 'click'
and off.

I press the call button
3 or 4 times
and the R.N. opens the door
I tell him that I just wanted
Someone to chat with until
I got sleepy but said nothing
And never got sleepy.

 - Hoc Scripsi

I've been writing poetry most of my life and all of my adult life but I failed to see it more than a small thing for many many years. It took not writing anything other than haiku poems for awhile and a life altering event to awaken the urgency of poetry to me. Now I regard this as my calling, I am a poet and there is nothing more important to a society as that. I long to be assassinated for fear of my influence - to me, assassination spells success even though they are 3 syllables different in length.

I didn't feel complete without posting something today.

something.

is seven am to early to drink?

tempted this morning to put Kahlua in my coffee for no reason other than the taste or change of pace.
Our life is not a movie but there is still sex on page sixty.
I stretched and kneaded yesterdays post into a sort of poem thing so that will amend. It's not very good or is it? I can never tell when they are still so new. (this is not begging for praise though I am not above that.)
at whole foods yesterday I satiated my taste for chocolate covered espresso beans and my six year old wanted to see me indulge again this morning (a young voyeur). While this is not Kahlua or vodka it will certainly get me going as I am no longer satiate in regard to these.

 completely unrelated but I really liked this photograph.

The Buddha resides in my front garden, never complaining when people honk their horns or smoke cigarettes too close to his kata scarf.

Federico Garcia Lorca, happy birthday.

06/05/2010 Federico Garcia Lorca,
happy birthday

They disappeared you
on the 16th of Aug
and assassinated you on
a moonless night one or two days later.
in 1936
you had died for all time.
fifty years later a memorial was erected
on the spot where you were killed.
in recognition of your talent
in apology of your end.

and while you weep for Ignacio, our
flood of tears are for you.

 - Hoc Scripsi

I know of no exceptions

"Every writer, without exception, is a masochist, a sadist, a peeping Tom, an exhibitionist, a narcissist, an injustice collector and a depressed person constantly haunted by fears of unproductivity"- Edmund Bergler

 I am forced to take today off from the typewriter and do other things. Don't take this as complaining, my distractions are human and interesting, thus may yield something fruitful when I do sit in front of the typer and write. I only comment on it at all for the simple reason that today I wonder if the creative drought has ended like I thought or does it continue even to now? I've certainly had greater periods of output and quality but isn't this getting into the semantics of what I mean by creative drought?

my eyes sting and are watering making it hard to concentrate.

I quoted the above as this fear of unproductivity that haunts me even at this very moment.  Should writers be defined by their shared concerns and malady's, reading the above assures me that I am a writer - I will gladly admit to any of those and more!

at the track

I don't go to the track and so this
poem cannot get
written.

neither do I run (cannot)
or watch horses and dogs
chase rabbits or carry little men
and women.

however, should I need,
there are countless OTB
establishments around and a track
not too far away
in Arlington Heights, Il.

 - Hoc Scripsi

I live in Elgin so there is also a gambling boat nearby where I could go and blow my dividends or jerk off to the losing of heaps of cash while I witlessly hope I can win and become addicted to gambling. Another thing that can be added to the list is that most if not all writers have the addictive tendency, I mean this with much affection toward other writers and hope that they see the truth of these things and are not lying to themselves, but are these 100, truly without exception? Probably only 99 though I know of no exceptions.

dealing with rejection is not a strength I posses.

Josephine, Allen and the death of G.F. Dutton

Josephine Baker and Allen Ginsberg share a birthday (born twenty years apart) today. It is easier for me to have two people I admire have the same birthday and I could only wish that all my friends shared a birthday on Christmas and that I was not born on Christmas, not to be difficult but I would like my own day once in a while.

the Scottish poet, scientist and much more, G.F. Dutton died on Monday 31 May.

He wrote austerely passionate poems which search and illuminate the world about us. They are as much explorations as his notable scientific work: both draw on one continuous spectrum of experience.

The above is an excerpt from wonderfully written obituary which can be found at bloodaxe books.

when we know that there were no more deaths during Memorial Weekend (US Holiday) I will complete the work that is my reaction which is not the poem that follows.

LIT MAGS

being rejected by the highbrow
lit mags is good for me.
helps remind me who I am.
where I am from.
which most certainly is not in the
posh offices of the new yorker or a
public space.
I submit to them now just to
be an ass, I imagine that some
poor schmuck sits there and has
the job of reading the unsolicited submissions
only to send out the kindest regards of the
editors. So, I send what I think is good
but I know will never make the mag.
my exercise in futility, I do
this instead of going to church.
the beer I drink tonight is for that
poor schmuck that I am going to
submit the ingredients of cracker jack to
tomorrow.

this is the part of life that gets
me hard in the morning.

 - Hoc Scripsi

the difference between 270 and 290 is two phone calls

the difference between two-hundred-seventy
and two-hundred-ninety,
is two phone calls.
paying son’s tuition for grade K,
forgetting 20 dollars raised the
red flags of poor attention to detail.
prompting immediate calls in attempt
to discern where, who, and most importantly
when the money is going to be paid.

simple mistakes are accepted.
instant correction is expected.
I wonder what the difference between
two-hundred ninety and two-hundred seventy is.

 - Hoc Scripsi

Too tired now to write anything else. Have an appointment in 20 minutes I wish I could cancel so I could go back to sleep and forget about the pain coursing through my back, hip and leg.

but I had great dreams last night.

RIP Louise Bourgeois

Louise Bourgeois dies and the art world loses another hero.

The loss is entirely ours as she lived 98+ years and beheld the admiration of her peers for three decades. A good life.
thus far those who have died in this recent display of death's power lived good lives, long lives (except Coleman who had health issues from a young age). A few did so many drugs and drank to an excess that it was a miracle they lived as long as they did, I'm sure they would agree. But now I am waiting for the other proverbial shoe (apologies for the cliche) to be let go.