happy coca-cola day!

Today, 125 years ago, John Pemberton concocted his cure all tonic which would eventually keep America stoned until they removed the special coca ingredient - probably resulting in the seventies and eighties coke binges and nose bleeds.

I hear my son walking around singing and now I shift from soda products and soda jerks to the woman who everyday makes me proud and reflects a light that comes from a place I am not aware, My wife - the perfect mother and a fine woman. Baby, happy mothers day - I won't bill you for the pancakes and bacon this time.
It takes a fine woman to raise a boy like Jackson and to tolerate a man such as I.

I love you baby.


My Mother - a woman rarely spoken of here largely of her unwillingness to allow me to share her story which is a hell of a story - I'll wait for her to perish and tell it, damn her sisters that would probably be eternally upset by its truth. Anyway - Thank you for bearing me into this world and, variously, assisting me in becoming the man I am now.

My secondary mother - my sister. Thank you for never dressing me up as a girl, thank you for holding me in your lap and I bled half my bodies capacity onto your body and lap - you were twelve and mistaken for my mother - this is not the last time that has happened - now I call you my little sister as I am a manly 6'2", 300 lbs and you no where near it. It was so good to see you recently and I can only hope you take my wife's offer to stay here on respite from a blissful like in Colorado.

Poems not by Jhon Baker, poems by one of my favorites -

Did I ever tell you that my son writes poetry? I think I have  (this post)- I love his efforts, such as:


Stars beneath

Stars are beneath
the clouds
in the sun and rain

 - or -

o, dear, O
dear
what shall we do
in the horror

 - or -

Rain

Rain falling
from the sky
really, the clouds

 - or -

wow
wow
wow
how many candies
are there?

All by Jackson Grey

His favorite poets are Shel Silverstein, William Blake, his Daddy, Bob Dylan, Sylvia Plath, Bukowski, Langston Hughes, Jack Prelutsky, Carl Sandburg, Garcia Lorca, Emily Dickinson, Ogden Nash, WCW, Paul Simon, and so many others
when asked he says - "mostly it's you, daddy."

"My poetry is great, but I still need to write poetry in my poetry book that I'm making. I make poetry because my Dad, he makes poetry." - Jackson

He want's to add -
"Jhon is a great poet, everyone should read it and tell your friends and they should tell their friends, and everybody should read the poetry, tell everyone is the whole wide world." - Jackson

"you need to bring an eraser because I think that the pencil can get tired." - Jackson, 6

a poem for Jackson

the sun hides
-    for Jackson


The sun hides
behind clouds &
cold wind
but
   wishes
        to
shine down on
my garden
for the flowers

 - Hoc Scripsi

I had posted something here earlier and came to believe it the worst thing I've ever written so I am sparing anyone else the haplessness of such writing.

I am sorry to have written it and subjected anyone else to it. Accept this as my deepest and most heartfelt apology if you had read it.

I replace it with the following image...

I am the dog that ate your homework.

not posting today

I failed to sleep properly last night and that ended in me getting up late for an appointment I had this morning which was to last until the afternoon. I made the appointment but was unable to post until now due to these circumstances. At this point I think it is going to be easier to not post today than to post this terrible excuse and partial apology for failing in my communication duties.
I gladly slept for a few hours after arriving back at my home, on my couch with a laptop perched on my lain down body and this page up and ready for typing.

I did manage to write the beginning of a poem of indeterminate length but am not including it here. Instead I am putting down a poem that my 6 year old son has just composed.

clouds
when the clouds
blow
a journey

 - not mine

I always hope that I will someday measure up to the person my son is.

This morning

Spending the morning listening to  vivadixiesubmarinetransmissionplot by Sparklehorse, which was Mark Linkous, who shot himself through his heart earlier this year. See this post for more about that. But this morning I am listening and saddened that he was in so much pain that it came to that. 

Most people I admire have committed suicide or lived so dangerously/recklessly that their death might as well been considered a suicide. This makes me worry unnecessarily for the people I admire that are still alive, but there are not many I admire and saying all are suicides is misstating the truth. Some have died as old men/women though not many.

The poem was written for my son.

the sun hides

   for Jackson

the sun hides
behind clouds &
cold wind
but
   wishes
      to
shine down on
my garden
for the flowers

- Hoc Scrips

Horribly tired today. Jackson got me up before six to play and look up information on Box Jellyfish - which I have learned I should be referring to them as Box Sea Jellies now as they are not fish and this was what J really wanted to know.

pages and pages

My son brings me a scorpion... I am tempted to stop there as it is true, fascinating and white knuckle. He brings it to me and asks about how it stings you and wonders about its size and relative effectiveness (at causing death or illness). As we live west of Chicago there are no scorpions here, and especially these deadly ones that he brings me which is suspended in acrylic.
There may be some live readings of my poetry, performed by me, coming up. We shall see. I will film it and post that if any of these happens.



dying roses are not broken promises


literal or not
we bled on pages
and pages and
pages of uncertain poetry.

women bleed with efficiency.

dying roses are not
broken promises as
are crumbling petals
no longer red.

- Hoc Scripsi


maybe later I'll have more to say, now I only have this poem and a cup of coffee and the few comments above.