short poem

77°

birdsong crashing into my skull
backyard
77°
arms burned from reading in noonday.
now,
that star buries deep into the west,
casting shadow over greening grass.

- Hoc Scripsi

also: don’t forget to go to here and download your own FREE copy of ark and other poems
It will print as a letter size but can be had as a normal chapbook if you would like. Simply contact me with your desire (at jhonbaker@att.net) and I can lead you to the promised low price ($6USD) chap which comes with a copy of gypsy bars chap – both with art by Micael Chadwick and poetry by yours truly.

the great idiot of us all

When I was growing up I was sure of two things. 1. I was retarded and 2. that I was adopted. - eventually I learned that 1. no and 2. no.


however, there is lingering doubt remaining about both only because my nature is different and odd and my nurture is fantastically imprinted.


I was also told that I couldn't carry a tune and was in speech therapy because I was monotone and thought to be tone deaf - both of these ended life being not true as I have become an accomplished musician and a pretty good singer.

If I was so motivated - this would be the start of my autobiography - or my memoirs as they call them.

what follows is probably terrible or terrific...


the great idiot of us all

the rain sleeps;
passed the nickel
through gates of wrath
after
observedly pounded on
windows and
doors and windows
doors and windows.

slept under lit porticoes
and flooded swails.

- last night I wrote this but may take it back

a busy day or at least a busy morning or how I learned to fill out medicare paperwork…

Already having been here for an hour and a half and out of coffee but rich in apple fritter - the radio plays Steve Miller much to a lack of excitement about it from the general crowd gathered in the IV infusion lab at Sherman Hospital.

We started this morning at the wound care clinic and waiting for a surgeon to look at the near 7 cm wound in my MIL's chest.

but for another topic - I have bought a copy of my own book for my wife's first generation Nook - she now has a color Nook and I am borrowing her old one to read Mark Twain's Autobiography as it is a rather large book and difficult to hold while in bed, lying down and preparing for restlessness in the dark. Anyway - I then got an app for my iPhone that makes available my Nook books on my iPhone - the line breaks are not correct on the iPhone and I cannot imagine reading something like a book on the phone that should really be for making phone calls and not playing games, checking e-mail, taking photos and all the other crap one can do with the phone. I wouldn't be surprised if the next iPhone was designed to do everything including talk for you and organize your garage but not make phone calls - and they will change the name to what the device actually is - a handheld personal computer - desktop, laptop and the handheld - next real step is the implant singularity.

I am tangential by nature.

I like being able to carry my book, as in MY book, with me everywhere and have it take up no added room. This is especially handy as I don't memorize my poems and try to forget that I've written most of them - now when someone says - tell me a poem, I can bust out my phone and do just that.

St Sebastian

walked, mid January,
through snowy woods
stepping lightly the tracks
of those travelled before,
leaving some for those behind.

no turns but trees to rest upon
no crickets to sing or call
no voices but those of
my companions
no impressive sigh
but that of our feet
crushing through
and impermanent
            
as I looked further,
down the path
we traveled,
it was Sebastian I thought of
and his arrows.

 - Hoc Scripsi

that is one of the first poems written in this year and I wonder what will be the last completed. I wonder what will be the first of 2012 unless the earth comes to a mind bogglingly spectacular end tomorrow night.

I do not look forward to organizing my paperwork for the tax man/woman/alien.

My MIL sleeps lightly in the barcalounger while being infused - I type and listen to bad radio commercials.

I am informed by bad advertising and pulp and the slush pile which my poetry occupies.

Happy 4th!

 (if only I'd gone to school to learn to blow shit up, I could have done this for a living)

For my overseas readers - read the title line as - Happy Monday!

(this will have to do as finding an image for happy Monday that wasn't cheeky or didn't involve breasts and kittens was too much work.)

What I think is that we celebrate on the incorrect day. Unless what we are actually celebrating is the declaration of war or the intent to be independent and taxed by our own people.

To celebrate our actual independence it ought to be moved not to the sixth of July (which was the original celebratory day but the fourth sounded better (citation needed)) but to September 3rd in recognition of that fateful day in 1783 where we actually gained independance and collectively said "what now?" - to be answered by "I don't know, we're fucking broke - someone call China or start taxing the peeps, or both." (citation needed).

But, I write this in America where we love our violence and wars, bloodshed is best remembered with a lot of explosions and many many missing fingers.


So, today I am playing the hell out of my ukulele and spending much time on the about to be painted deck.
here is another image which I found but couldn't fit in anywhere else.

(this is the kind of stuff that eliminates fingers from children and stupid men.)

premature ejaculation

firecrackers, bottle rockets and gunfire.
July 3rd premature ejaculation punctuating
already poor sleeping summer night.

roman candles blue center light sizzling
like so many horribly dangerous sparklers
blinding and burning.

mortars shake the house and

dozens of fingers and hands sacrificed
at the alter of popular patriotism.

 - Hoc Scripsi



A few links which contain the ability to have new poetry not only by myself but by others as well.
Pre-order - PigeonBike (beyond the broken bridge) here - DO IT NOW!!!

and free to read on the internet and/or print copies to keep and give away! If you give some away get photos and send them to me and I will get the to the proper place where each image will be celebrated.
Get one or all eight issues here - also, DO IT NOW!
I appear in volumes 1, 3 and 4 - however, a lot of my good friends and some excellent poets appear across all volumes so I suggest you read them all.

four fingers

sleep sleep - where are you now? on Benedryl max strength, ultram, cymbalta and norco - I should have passed out mid OJ guzzle - maybe to add whiskey.


I love for southern France,
with my wife,
beautiful and windy
like chicago,
but more beautiful,
like my wife.

 - this at one thirty-six am, drunk off medications, OJ but no whiskey. - I'll take four fingers of your finest, please.

Focus on the writing

Things are starting to get easier - I think. I may have a cold or allergies - probably allergies but the sandbox is finished and beautiful. I have to recharge the air filters on my motorcycle and truck and finish the application for disability and SSI - these are both things I've been putting off but can no longer.

7.62x54R

the madman levels his rifle
in calm calculus
bright cloudless day
78 degrees F (23 c).

7.62x54R forced from the barrel
spinning in terminal glory.

the poet stands, taciturn,
in the street with notebook
pencil to paper
calm calculus
accepting and falls to
his knees. Last poem penned
in darkest red.
78 degrees F (23 c)

 - Hoc Scripsi

I prefer sunflowers from my wife

a bouquet or even a single flower

I don't notice the vase

a Van Gogh sitting on my kitchen table
with a note proclaiming love

I prefer sunflowers from my wife

to all other gifts.

Holy Allen

Happy birthday Holy Allen, Happy birthday Josephine,

may your poems and songs in heaven reach here where your voices are still needed most

the good doctor, dead today, heart stopped and body preparing for rest

today I go out shooting guns and laying waste at ranges to celebrate second amendment

remembering Holy Allen, Josephine and now the good Doctor...


we will all meet in Heaven if that be where I end.

poor poor Shel

Shel, I'll never forgive you for leaving us, as I'll never forgive all those tethered to my heart except the one who left to leave behind her pain.

Shel didn't die those years ago - he just went home.

full moon fifty miles outside Chicago 72° heavy
winds from the should standing under the starry’d night
sky and this is what I’m thinking…

ainsi il va.

sunlight.

I can sleep in sunlight,
natural light,
but not artificial light.

no matter how an artificial day attempts to be
my body prefers the heavens radiation.

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

only sleep eases pain

only sleep eases pain

pain defines.

joy, happiness, collusion

love even distrust,

having dreams, night terrors, delusions.

all are unknown in entirety.

“how perfectly goddamned delightful it is

to be sure.”

every moments considered

length is by pains

varying degree.

 - Hoc Scripsi

the 1st, after bed and now, against my will, awake

holy shit - it's Saturday. I truly believed it was Monday and I was prepared to go to the doctors. got my coat, hat and new gloves - poured a to-go cup of joe and hugged my son goodbye - then my wife asked where I was going.
okay, she laughs beautifully, even when it is at my expense. I love her laugh so I can't be mad, only confused. Also a little peeved as the appointment was the only reason I got out of bed at all.


The great advantage of using cell phones is that I can turn it off when I want to not be bothered. The unfortunate side of that is I forget I shut it off or I just allow it to wane its battery until death and forget all about the fact that I have the bugger. It never occurs to me that no one calls, it never occurs to me that I should call other people.


I'll never forget the furling flags
above fire escapes
outside the walk-ups
     of downtown Chicago

December, snow, ice and the general good time with whiskey

Apparently the 44" snow thrower attached to the front of my John Deer is going to come in handy tonight and through the weekend. Also of use will be the seed spreader that pulls behind filled with ice melter.
December already and it's going to be a white my birthday.

This is for Troy

1. the bending of steel

poetry.
coffee.
a love of hard liquor.
rifles, shotguns, pistols
revolvers.

men were bound by
thinner threads then these.


2. hammering to form

poetry.
coffee.
a love of hard liquor.
rifles, shotguns, pistols
revolvers.

man’s bind was broken by
thinner threads than these.


3. the fine blade

beauty.
art.
love.
the eyes and body move
of a naked dancing muse.

man’s mind was broken by
thinner threads than these

 - Hoc Scripsi


I am looking at the Magpie image and thinking now; I am looking at my own door, painted red with window, and thinking casually.

I've been reading a lot of blogs lately and seeing some quality writing and some not so much. I comment on about 1/3rd of what I am reading as time does not allow for expression and reciprocation on everyone's thoughts. On need to get back to Rabbit on his poetry as I said I would and am still pounding through the fall of man.
This blog needs more energy - needs more poetry while it is looking like I will finish the year slightly ahead of where I was last year. A good thing but I can see where I didn't use all of my time wisely.

Almost nap time.

This above poem was written for Troy, because without him it would not have been written. Although it has been turned down by two publishers I believe it to be a solid poem and have high hope for it over the next few months.
Any publisher that reads me and wants it may use it with notification.

ad a good breakfast with a friend this morning with coffee that rivals the best of normal coffee houses - she only need a better coffee maker to bring it to the next level. Good range of topics covered and I left before I may have gotten boring immediately following saying some profound things. To include, on the subject of the impossibility of perfection or an impossible definition of perfection as to human achievement - If I am the sum of my life's experiences, then I am perfect as I am. Some may say that leaves no room for improvement, but I counter that with I am only talking about now, not what is possible with the possibility of tomorrow.

Putting Sparklehorse's last album to play I am now going to close my eyes and pull the night mask on. The safety word is "revenge"


 - J.

Rain poured this morning so I stayed in bed until after noon. Sitting now at a local shop (okay, it's a Starbucks) and it started raining hard again. How did I know this? it was not looking out the window or seeing the bright lightening flashes but the sudden increase in pain in my leg. The chunk of metal astc as some kind fucking antenna for weather changes and sudden ones are the most painful.
Waiting for someone to appear here and in the meantime looking like one of those writers with their MacBook open writing all alone, against the world.

I've nothing to write about right now other than right now. There is no-one interesting here and my new friend has yet to show up. It is raining so hard I hope he has a ride but I don't know as  I can't really say I know him all that well yet.

had rain outside the local coffee shop

bad art, pale blue walls
children left alone in
the vestibule, waiting
for their mother to bring
the car round

 - Hoc Scripsi

I could tell you many things from Aa to Gh but would then require a break

in
general

there are only
two ways
to see things

with the
eye
or
the brain

what could
be more
simple

succinct

Streetlamp desperation

we move back and forth, swaying - we move. we are not barnacles - darting out but concrete in place, the tides affect us and coffee awakens us. we move, together or solitarily our tides effect the ocean we wax and wane, grow and become substantial - shrink and become embittered, embattled. It is our narrative.

for me writing is a solitary art, I cannot go into cafes or restaurants and write, I cannot have company at all and produce at a rate any faster than the raccoons under my porch hunt in the daytime. The exception would be a bustling cafe where the noise reaches an apex that become a humm, analogous to the noise that my brain produces in silence -  there is anonymity then and in place you are alone without social contact unless you will it or welcome it. Restaurants always have the server to interrupt and they unequivocally hate it when someone sits there and writes no matter how good the tip is or how short the visit is. the perception is always of the wanna be beat emo clown who nurses coffee for hours believing that they alone are granted rights of intrusion into another persons livelihood. So I normally sit in a small room at the back of the house, where the walls are a dominating red, where there is a couch in case I get tired, where there are my books in case I want to pretend I have laurels to rest upon, I don't.
I've chosen to go back through my poets - from Sappho to J. Milton and maybe find the right right muse to alleviate me from this consistent creative drought - but maybe I ought to go into the mountains or get lost in the desert. I would bring along WCW or Ignato because bringing along either Huxley or Morrison would be less a learning experience and more an exercise in imitation.

I am having trouble finding an end to this narrative so here's a photo.

unfinished

I think what I need to do is to come up with a long list of possible topics and/or post titles - this way I will not be sitting here trying to think of what great or insignificant piece of knowledge/experience would best be displayed on this page.
I wouldn't mind your suggestions, i.e. what would you like to read my current opinion on.
One post I have planned but not the will to write is what I am trying to do with poetry. More or less a short treatise on what I believe makes good, lasting work.

this poem holds no bearing on the former post.

unfinished

one hand moves swiftly against the other,

(a final act of

expression.

a final act of

rebellion.)

wisping eagerly

against the fiddling wind

life dropping,

weighted,

still

on tiled, unclean

bathroom floors.

 - Hoc Scripsi

chapter 10

the year begins and ends in winter.

a bee lands on my middle finger, left hand,

I am allergic to bees

and winter is steadily approaching.

opinions are like ewoks - no one really knows what they're saying.

tempted to start drinking again tonight, nothing particularly derailing during a long day and mostly a good day but the drags at the end truly drag and ebb the soul. 
constrained right words to preserve the flow  of individual righteousness and allow people their opinion - this is not my nature as I believe that not everyone is entitled to an opinion, uninformed opinions are ill justified judgments and only serving to off track to pursuit but in public forum where I am at the table of civility and delegatory responsibility it is of utmost importance that the joke is well timed and a perfect segue.


words

the notebooks,
IBM Selectric IIIs,
et cetera
these are my shields,
protecting me from the world
from you –

My words are the weapons
I utilize

bludgeoning the audience
until they bleed from ears,
mouth, fingertips,
and eyes. 

 - Hoc Scripsi