poem

As a child I would often look up to the outlaw or the seeming enemy. It was for his bravery, daring, disgust with the law creator. Today in 1918 one of my earliest and most beloved heroes was killed by the allied forces, the name of the pilot who shot him down escapes me now but my hero is/was Manfred Von Richthofen, the bloody Red Baron. I don't think it's that odd or anything, there are many boys who would want to be looked up to like that but one of the things I often would admire was that he was killed. Later in life I would liken him to Billy the Kid (who fought not for country) and Federico Garcia Lorca (killed for being a poet). As noted before many of my heroes kill themselves while some die of old age. What I didn't mention was that there are a lot who are murdered for being who they were.When greatness is recognized there is no recognition of Country. Even the British buried him with Military Honors as he was deserving. I also admit that I would not like to see the reign of hell he would have brought if he lived, but death doesn't allow the extraordinary to be such for too long, death or worse shuts the door suddenly.
going into war and perishing in it is not that different from suicide really, it is only easier to connect to the reason the person has died. The Red Baron flew in the face of his enemy and taunted them, baited death until it arrived. This is not the action of a stable brain.






POEM

S. Michigan Ave. & 43rd
or thereabout.
Standing south corner
looking up, with
nothing particular in mind.
 
-  Hoc Scripsi


listening to Arcangelo Corelli and I am thinking that most of my out put lately has been written to his music or silence. Such Perfect Baroque.
my hands are abused badly. Cuts, scrapes and dry cracking. I can't remember to use any kind of lotion unless I see it staring at me from the corner or counter. it hurts to type a little on this slim apple keyboard and they are not looking giddily with anticipation at moving over to the Selectric III later. The doctor tells me to wash my hands less than I do but they feel like they have a coating, an extra skin of grime so that my fingers don't want to touch each other or anything else for that matter. Right now they sting to wash but no matter I will distract myself suddenly and be done with it. 
This is also how to learn to fly according to the late Douglas Adams. Throw yourself at the ground and at the last moment - become distracted. I've tried this with no success. I would imagine that it would be easier to accomplish whilst heavily drinking but then I also think it would be less than intelligent to operate yourself while intoxicated while flying around as it opens worlds of things that you can now bump into.


Don't forget Literary Tonic.