Here I am, cigarette in hand...

but the coffee is running low and I've a sandbox to finish building.

coffee

I need to start drinking iced coffee or maybe iced tea. I'm the only one I know that really doesn't care for iced tea and I absolutely cannot stand iced coffee. iced soy chai - now your talking but why go out and spend five bucks just to sit outside and fuck around on the laptop. It is never too hot to enjoy the home brew - it is never too cold to eat a bowl of ice cream, and all movies watch better with popcorn.

Today's poem is a few years old and has been published twice - once in Roadkill zen Journal and again in my book, hands on the hips (available from Amazon or signed if you order through the buttons in the upper right hand corner), I have put it up because RKzJ has closed their site and it is no longer available there - this is the bad thing about internet publication, it creates no history. I think I should take screen shots where my poems appear on this world wide web just to have the history for my self - kept in a box at the bottom of a closet.

togethercoloured

roadside diner,

a dollar for bitter coffee.

I want the hard rain.

I want the long rain,

HARD on my shoulders and face

with hands stuffed in pockets

clutching three dollars.

I want the drowning rain,

pooling underneath

walking feet. Running

shoes cleaned and soaking;

peregrination of two miles

in a Chicago summer,

toward a phone call, paper towels

and over-extracted coffee.

- Hoc Scripsi 

while in a diner some months ago

 

late or early

 

some people are indifferent

to the early morning hours

classifications.

 

but, we’re singing.

singing!

serenading the stars,

wooing the moon;

without sleep or

the song

            of song birds.

only the chatter of

            nocturnal

               animals and

            feet

shuffling along the

            ground.

regardless of it being

early or late.

 - Hoc Scripsi 

recently there was a poem of mine in Madswirl and if you haven't been there to check it out - Go Now! Second from the bottom -       

The Best of Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum : 01.15.11

stuck

I've been stuck and I feel like I am beginning to be unstuck. I wake now feeling that there is something I have to do I just don't know what it is and I don't know how to discover what it is.
These are not questions but merely statements or self observations.

I want lightening and thunder.

I've gone visibly more gray in the past week.

my coffee cup is 9/10 low on the magic elixir and what is left has grown cold and uninviting.

meant to do something today, but I forgot.

I woke up this morning and put jeans on, this is not normal as I usually wear slacks with a nice t-shirt but this morning I intended to do something like tend to the lawns growth. I started in on drinking coffee and thinking, plotting out my day and noting that instead of getting out of bed at a reasonable hour I chose to spoon with K for an extra few hours.
the coffee had expired while I was dressing so what I drink is fresher and more palatable. but unfortunately delayed.
Charles Mingus' jazz symphony 'epitaph' plays over the afternoon. the afternoon which is supposed to be filled with thunderstorms and rain for the grass and other various plants. overcast but without notice from the heavens.
I want for the rain, I want for the phone to ring (though I despise talking on it), I want for something to happen that doesn't involve what had already happened.
I'll never get to the lawn today and will feel woefully under dressed for everything, not that I will be but that truth does not invalidate the former truth.
more coffee will have to be made and the day will progress regardless of my wants, desires and frustration at sleeping so long everyday these past several days. not sleeping well at night followed by sleeping all too well during the day - one aggravates the other I know and both are caused by the withdrawal from the medication.
no-one told me how long the withdrawal is going to last because the psychiatrist was upset that I cold turkey'd it  and was concerned that I would not acquiesce to her, or rather defer my opinion to her professional opinion. Simply put it robbed me of the pure essence of life, rounding the edges and blunting the sword does not give me the highest opinion of life without the viewpoint of abnormal psychosis.

shit, I think I lost control of the post and am no longer aware of the plot.
have a poem...


my child

and you/ my child,/ who lay there sleeping,/ easily resting with lights still on/ who I dare not wake by moving// my beautiful child/  who soundly breathes/ heavy/ lying there next to me for comfort,/ I do not have the courage to move to out the light/ and hope your mother will chance by to snuff it that you may sleep still,/ dreaming what it is you dream and never remember.// always my playful, adored child/ somnolent in the house that surrounds/ and the father who fears to wake you/ accidentally.  

 - Hoc Scripsi

this is what I am thinking as I am picking the sleep from my eyes.

Had a nap yesterday that didn't feel like a nap and last night didn't feel like sleep until about seven am which lasted until roughly nine. I'd call it sleeping in if the night was full of sleep. Most nights since I stopped taking the anti-psychotic have been fine but the main reason to stop taking the meds has not reversed itself as of yet. My mind is still clouded and the creative drought still exists. There is the other thought that I am splitting my mind between too many things right now to be able to concentrate on new poetry or prose.
I decided this weekend that I ought to have been applying labels or tags to each of my posts for easier reference. As I had not been doing this I am now going back and having to skim each one to apply the labels or tags and avoid the temptation to revise and rewrite passages that are not on the level of quality that the others are. Last night I did over a hundred thus completing the bulk of them and tonight I may finish the project but now I am thinking that I would be better off thinking of about 15 tags and only utilizing those which would mean that I would have to start over. I am not being kind to myself.
This morning is a Tom Waits morning and currently the song "Kentucky Avenue" is playing - brings me to tears every time.
My coffee is good and thanks to Kara for making it this morning when I was refusing to rouse myself. There is nothing better than walking into a kitchen where there is fresh, hot coffee and clean mugs - I drink it black and burn your fingertips hot.

I wonder what is done with medical waste and what will alien anthropologists think when it is found?

I'm almost sure there is a simple explanation but I am too nervous to use Google thinking that flarf may lead me into a new direction where there exists the pornographic denizens of the internet.



Words are dry, meaningless

words are dry,
expression faceless.
the ladybugs came here to die
on my window;
baking in the sun.

a hundred portraits
unhung,
composing city life.

walks along South Michigan
in Chicago;
children think I am homeless
and dirty.

find Buddha in the patrons .
find Buddha in the hall.
find Buddha on the front steps
of MOMA.
je suis beau!
find Buddha in me!

on these steps I ask for a light;
and I am
not thinking that I’m going to write this
a year later, or more, sitting at
my desk. where
ladybugs come to die
on my window.

- Hoc Scripsi

euthanasia

Euthanasia: from the encyclopedia Britinica: also called mercy killing act or practice of painlessly putting to death persons suffering from painful and incurable disease or incapacitating physical disorder or allowing them to die by withholding treatment or withdrawing artificial life-support measures. Because there is no specific provision for it in most legal systems, it is usually regarded as either suicide (if performed by the patient himself) or murder (if performed by another). A physician may, however, lawfully decide not to prolong life in cases of extreme suffering; and he may administer drugs to relieve pain, even if this shortens the patient’s life. In the late 20th century, several European countries had special provisions in their criminal codes for lenient sentencing and the consideration of extenuating circumstances in prosecutions for euthanasia.

1935 in England saw the first lobbying group to form for the purpose of legalizing human euthanasia - not the tyrannical fascist dictator kind but the kind borne of kindness and letting go. America saw the same thing in 1938 - both called 'the Euthanasia Society.' one of America the other doesn't state it's country as it started there. Finally in 2001, in the Netherlands, a law was passed legalizing/decriminalizing the right to end your own life in pain (see definitions above). Belgium in 2002. Oregon has a law allowing physician-assisted suicide. Why do I post all this today?
Well, it was today in 2001 that the Netherlands leagalized it.

I only wish that a post from a few days ago didn't contain the poem that it did - it's perfect for today - here is a link. Disambiguation - Wednesday morning 3:21

 today we have a altogether different thing:


(sipping coffee) I just don't know what that is yet.

listening Pachelbel's Canon  - and concentrating on the harpsichord in the distance - it foreshadows the build, and calm - like a great poem or play there are distant clues which I had not heard in this recording until today.

(sipping coffee) this is related to everything today. This was written before we moved to this great house and now no longer have a freezing basement where I think the pipes might give way at anymoment.

gravity

there’s a certain
affection for being a pariah;
black sheep goes better
with vodka & olives
than whisky & water.

I have an infatuation for
television personalities and
watch their shows love sick
with longing & heartbroken;
going through the same motions
everyone does while
waiting for the nude scene &
drinking bad housewife coffee.

but this is not enough.
there is no exception to
the rule of mortal law
as there is no exception to
the gravitational effect on drunkenness.

and so I sit here at
the typewriter in a
freezing basement
waiting for the phone to ring
or the pipes to burst.

- Hoc Scripsi