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.

AND NOW a word from K, my wife, on what it's like to support/live with a writer

This post in in response to the 'significant other blogfest' The theme of which is "what it is like to support/live with a writer'.
Written by K., My wife, partner, lover, ardent supporter and needed critic --

In true Jhon fashion, he signed me up for this without actually asking my permission.  It’s always so grand to put someone ‘on the spot’ that hates being anywhere near the center of attention.  Well – in the “public center’ anyways – at home I like to be what is first and foremost on J’s mind.  

I love that he calls me K and I call him J.  It is something very ‘us’ – and should not be invaded upon by anyone else.   To everyone else, I am Kara.  Kara – with the first “a” being long and the second “a” being short.  I would hate for anyone reading to have the wrong pronunciation of my name going through his or her mind. Yes, I am extremely territorial, hardheaded and opinionated.

What is it like being the ‘significant other’ of a writer?  Hmm, well that seems to be too narrow of a question, as I cannot separate the writer Jhon from the rest of him.  The title of ‘writer’ makes up who he is – just as does friend, husband, father, lover.

He does have those ‘things’ that only writers have – always carrying around a moleskin and pencil (has since I met him 11 years ago), scraps of papers, napkins, receipts filled with ideas, no book he reads goes unblemished of notes, idea and wandering thoughts. When he has a thought – he must put it to paper – no matter where or when – even mid-conversation (at which point I am shushed or a ‘wait” finger goes up.)  Sometimes I am surprised that he waits until we’re done ‘recreating’ before getting out that little black notebook.  I try not to be offended when that  ‘thought’ he must just put to paper has nothing to do with the love making that just transpired.

A ‘must’ on our list when looking for a house to spend the rest of our lives in – was that it must have a room just for him to write in.  Of course that room is more than just a place to write – it is a sanctuary to meditate, breathe, create, read,  study, and sometimes watch Family Guy.   It is where all of the typewriters are kept.  He prefers to type the old – fashioned way, which is highly romantic, and sometime a bit on the loud side.  I have only myself to blame for that as the first Birthday gift I gave him was a typewriter I rescued from a resale shop.

Jhon is inspired by everything around him – and sees things so differently from most – and this really comes through in his writing, music and art.  He feels with such depths of his heart and soul  - and is such a wonderful and good human being.  His thirst for knowledge is astounding –and I don’t think it will ever be quenched.  At any given moment he is in the middle of reading 2 or 3 books, several magazines, researching his latest obsession online, and of course keeping up with what you all are up to in the blogging world.  I must admit that some of the blogs out there bug the hell out of me – and I don’t see the point of them really – other than being romance novel sort of entertainment or on the lines of hustler.  I’ve never been a romance novel reader or an ‘adult magazine’ connoisseur – and the point of networking through such sites is – well a little beyond me.   But sometimes one does have to stretch outside the box to become more recognized.

Of course, there are the times when Jhon is extremely hard on himself; does not like anything he’s written and can’t stand to read his own work any more.  Aren’t we all our own worst critics?  If we weren’t we would never strive to be better and continue to learn.  I always try to be as supportive as possible.  I think Jhon’s a positively brilliant writer – and I probably don’t tell him that enough. 

I try to support – by keeping him well fed, well sexed, being aware of his needs – to know when to leave him the hell alone, and getting him a pair of clean socks everyday.

            As his wife, the one who knows him best, I have the distinct honor of getting to read almost all of his work – and have read more than anyone else.  I love having the chance to be his editor and agent.  It takes me a while to digest and to really be able to comment – which I think, drives him nuts sometimes.  But, it is an always-honest review of what he has written.  It speaks volumes of our relationship that he is able to take criticism from me, and even advice on how maybe to change things. 

            Jhon’s love of learning is truly an inspiration for me to keep learning as well.  It also inspires our son to love learning – it is wonderful that he already has such a love for the written word, writing his own poems and stories just like Daddy.  Jhon is a renaissance man – with so many passions in this life.  At times such a seemingly contradictory man, a Buddhist, a gun owner, an animal lover, a human rights advocate, a PTO Co-President.  Well, I guess the the only contradiction here is ‘gun owner.” But, he also love knives, too. (I forgot Biker!)

            This seems to have been a ramble of sorts – it’s always been very difficult for me to pinpoint my feelings about Jhon – they are so overwhelming – as I am so in love with him.  He’s my best friend -  and through everything we’ve been through over the past 11 years – nothing will ever come between us.  Being a writer is just who Jhon is – has always been – since forever.  He has overcome so many obstacles to get to where he is today – a very respected writer.  It’s hard to believe that anyone could have ever told him that he was not smart enough – just goes to prove that our past is what makes us what we are today.  

            And on one final note – one of Jhon’s favorite stores in Chicago – right down State Street from the Art Institute happens to be Blicks. (We went there after our first trip to the Art Institute together.)  I have been witness to Jhon’s wholehearted generosity more than once in the past years – and it always amazes me to be in the presence of such an Angel.  He’s my Angel  - and I would not be here without him. I only hope to be as good of a person as he is one day.   Through his writing, I hope that his light will shine on you as well.

short thought in form

 I would die

if my

wife did.

tho she does not

believe me, I

fear it is honest.

or –

A disagreement of sorts

I would die,

pass from physical life, cash in, check out,

croak, decease, meet my demise, my maker,

go, depart, drop out, expire, kick it, kick in,

pass away, kick off, peg out, pip, pop off, become extinct,

annihilated, silenced, fall to the long sleep,

snuff it, snuff out, perish, succumb, swelt, go to my fathers ,

breathe my last, shuffle off this mortal coil, give up the ghost,

kick the bucket, cash out my checks, meet my end,

toes up, tits up, push daises,  fail to exist, cease thriving

if my wife did.

tho she does not believe me, I

fear it is honest.

 - Hoc Scripsi

my wife is the killer of flies.




It's a good thing that they pray from both ends.

the wife

Today is our ten year anniversary, so today is hers.



THE WIFE

it’s great, she
doesn’t ask me to help
clean more than pick up after
myself, or ask that my beard
be trimmed all that often.

she buys beer when I want it
and makes the coffee when it is
empty.

cooks, washes the
dishes, and makes sure that the
boy gets bathed often enough
and that he eats enough.

intelligent and reads a lot
so is easy to talk to and
we make love or laugh often
and sometimes there are tears
or both together.

I almost always have clean clothes
and she makes sure that
I buy new ones fairly often so
I  don’t look like a writer, or
a vagrant or a jazz musician;
which I am to varying degrees,
all three.

but none so successfully that
I can make the living at it.

           I
ask her why she does these things
with only the occasional complaint
(usually when she thinks I am
critical of her), and she says
that she loves me.

I believe her tho she never
believes that I am not critical
of her.
I am critical of
everyone else, even the self,
she is all that is close enough to perfect
that I don’t mind the headaches.

 - Hoc Scripsi

this title has been sent in place of the missing one.

For the first time in my life my brain is more or less silent. I've wished this for years and now I find that it was better with the chatting and screaming, singing and forceful memories like forced voyeurism. I don't think I was crazy then but to try and will it back into existence is a little crazy at least. It might be that there is more tiredness, last night I fell asleep around nine while I was trying to write. What a change - going from insomnia to somnolence and now to sleeping hard with occasional hypersomnia. Last night was an anomaly where I usually get about six hours of the hard sleep -(usually: these past two weeks.).
I tend not to write much when I am creatively involved elsewhere, like building a lemonade stand of furniture grade quality for my son. Today is the last day of painting it and then I start on new drawers for my wife's kitchen cabinets. I will need to take time off to write consciously I think, and organize my embarrassing garage situation. Writing is the more important of the tasks, I would allow the world to fall to ruin (luckily it's already there!) before I allowed my writing to be negatively affected.

Theater Underground has just published another poem of mine on their blog. it's a good read and Patrick Tillett has already seen it and commented (thank you, sir) - don't be left out!
TUG is a production company doing some of the best and edgiest plays of anyone around. It is especially impressive because one step too far and they lose it all as they are so small still. They have probably taken a few stops too far but it's great theater. If you are in the McHenry, Illinois Area next weekend (16th & 17th) be sure to see the plays. they are not to be missed.
once again the link: Blank Pages


Today's offering


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.


- Hoc Scripsi



Commenting on this blog: a quick reminder. click on the word comments below and it should either give you a window or a box or both, or click on the title of this entry and it will give you a box at the bottom of the complete post. I so enjoy the comments I receive via facebook and I would like everyone to see them - unless they are personal. Comments can be totally random or on point, I don't care I just like to read them.

Picasso, Buddha, Bach vs. Back and sadness.

Dear reader,

in 1973, Picasso dies on the Buddha's birthday which all is recognized as having had happen on the eighth of April. This also happens to be today, and probably not by coincidence or design it is Kofi Annan's birthday as well.
Today my wife goes grocery shopping, today she restocks us on sympathy cards because it has been a tough year and we've run short by one. My good friends mother passed suddenly and she is now going home. Today is a grieving day for many I know and I think deeply, meditate on what has happened, there is nothing I can do for my friend, there is nothing he has asked so I wait for further instruction. My thoughts are with him and his wife and his departed Mother. She was a good woman I hear, I was not of her company, and if you are the praying sort, pray for her now. If you are the meditating sort, meditate on the swiftness of death and the suddenness of her departure for her final, our final home.
Noah, I am with you where you are where you must be surrounded by love. Our hands are offered if you need but I doubt you will read this today.


I've discovered a poem amongst the completed poems of 2009 that had a word misspelled that completely altered the meaning and readability. So much so I couldn't figure out the word and had to refer to the original draft. Sometimes MS Word auto corrects Bach to be back without due consideration for the content of the phrasing. The alteration did not improve the whole but destroyed it. Now even with the word corrected the whole is a loss and needs to be taken down to the studs and begun again.

the last three lines (containing the error now rectified) go thus:

the radio switches to Bach;

I make leave to

urinate.

as a haiku it would suck - as the ending of a poem it is decent but now needs a poem in front of it. Speaking of Haiku, here is some - not-haiku. I don't write haiku, I used to but got tired of arguing with people stuck of the 5-7-5 but more than willing to ignore the necessary line references - Tomorrow I will excerpt my treatise on Haiku as today I talk about not-haiku.

Falling leaves:
      Magnificent!
Whose illusion?

____________________________

Killed a bug: my
life should be
so important.

___________________________

                     Melting snow.
The sounds of lovemaking
are infinitely brutal.

- Hoc Scripsi

There are dozens of these in my folders and binders. I really like to write them as an exercise in the correct words as they are meant to be painfully concise, and vividly detailed. I think each one goes through at least a weeks worth of revision and often ends nearer to the first draft than the seventh or seventeenth depending on how far I take it. Some - like the second were there immediately and took no revision. It was a moment when I had smashed some poor creature who was part of a greater whole, killed while performing some unknown vital task, and I took it's life instantly filling with regret at the realization of the enormity and importance of such small beings. It was a satori moment for me.

next I thought of David Ignatow and how he captured a similar experience in a poem about killing a fly. that can be found here and here is a page of the book it is from, scanned by Google.




my auto correct knows to capitalize Google but not how to spell Bach. humph.

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

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.

Three…


- 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.

Valentine's final hours, the poor bastard.

St. Valentine wrote a love letter to his jailer's daughter. He fell in love with her supposedly. I think if this is true it might be the first example of Stockholm Syndrome. Now we celebrate this mental abnormality by sexing one another.
As I write poetry often for my wife, there is little that I make public. I wish for her to compile it all after my death and put it out as a book of poems for her. This idea isn't new but it is my way of offering something to her that is not offered to anyone else, as I do not have much I have this and it is for her only.


I don't hate flowers

I fill the page
I write this on
with flowers;
on the other side I sketch my wife,
naked.

I 'm not terribly fond of flowers.
though I tend to stoop and pet them,
I would as soon pluck one from the earth
to curry favor from my wife as I would
to plant one.

 - I wrote this.