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.

see it was like this when...

There isn't anything better to do in an infusion lab than to surf the internet or sit here and write a blog post. I have had enough of surfing as there are too many waves that crash me and cause undo pressure on my brain - there is only so much I can learn and I prefer everything I learn have to do with my areas of interest - for those I have books and experience, these being the doors of true freedom.

Today my keep of classical music fills the infusion lab - Bach, two part invention BMV 772 no. 1 in C major and soon onto another but for now this is what it is.

I could go walking in the hospital and see how many surgeons are about and engage them in conversation about poetry - philosophy - blood; the typical elements of good conversation. I could go to the cafeteria and indulge in sugary pastries and see how long it takes for me to get ill and shake uncontrollably, I could go bother the security and behave suspiciously - but all of this will only land in different areas of trouble.

For another topic and stop me if you've heard this one... never mind - I think you have.

there isn't any poetry in this post

This is a copy of a post from my word press blog from yesterday.... I'll be trying to post in both places until I bore of it. I will follow this one with my post from today should I find it in need of posting.

Paul Simon is on the radio and was preceded by Buffalo Springfield. Sitting at a hospital and waiting for the IV infusion to complete is not the most interesting thing I’ve planned into my day but it is not the most uninteresting thing either.
Last night while journaling I decided to simply write what ever I heard in my head – it isn’t the first time I’ve done this and I usually only do it every time I forget that there is no narrative to the voices
“I like that old time Rock and Roll” sung without any irony.
or dreams of close eyes just before bed contemplation. Interesting disconnectedness to it. Sometimes flow of consciousness isn’t going to be any good – or sometimes it is good and most of the time it is disjointed and sad.
phil collins now and I think the disc Jockey must be schizophrenic as there is no sense to the selected song list – Elton John earlier.
I’ve never really cared for radio save the classical station – WFMT – of which I am a member and it plays constantly in my car. Radio seems either to play to the vox popoli or a far too specific cast of listeners – as I am not a member of the VP – I am a member of a specific cast of listeners – those who listen to classical and jazz mostly so I don’t get exposed to a lot of current but the current makes me want a whiskey and water.
The patient falls asleep in her barcalounger while hooked into IV antibiotics. a severe lack of anything interesting for me while I have my computer must be mind bogglingly boring for her without any entertainment except for the schizophrenic radio DJ. The radio DJ brags about playing pop, rock and soul and he forgets to mention crap and filler and bad radio commercials.

why are you here?

www.willfulresemblance.com

click above.


that is where you should be.

Moving day

moving day has arrived and there are posts there that are not here.
I've decided to stretch my legs with WordPress a bit. I have been dissatisfied with blogger and all the recent changes to the dashboard and posting pages and such are enough to drive me batty. It isn't that I abhor change but I do like to be involved and have a bit of a say - especially when it comes to a platform that I am used to using. I will maintain this blog in addition to mental slip but will be posting at WordPress and combining those two blogs.
it is easy to find the new/moved blog - just type into your address bar or click - www.willfulresemblance.com - sign up for e-mail notification and never miss a post. I make no promises about posting regularity or profundity of poetry only that I will still be the proletariat  poet and prostitute.
how's that for alliteration?
remember:
www.willfulresemblance.com

it will be a grand adventure - but now, I am off to the pistol range to continue breaking in my new 1911 Range Officer and 1911 GI compact.

life is good.

I am fairly certain that I became an artist for the pussy. I learned that when you successfully sell a show there is even more pussy. Getting girls to come into my studio (where there was a bed) was never a problem and then getting them naked was even easier. Tons of pussy in painting if you do it right.

When I got tired of the pussy I stopped painting and took up jazz for the ass it provided.

Poetry has never gotten me laid except by my wife and that is only a maybe. I think it could but I am not interested in that - only the poetry itself.

Playing guitar also never really got me laid - and these are the things I continue to do to this day - guitar and poetry - guitar less so and poetry more so.

Also Ukulele.

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.

Judas

For several years I've thought about Judas. My intention is a long poem. My intention is to visit this theme as a poetic eulogy and I've thought and thought.

The Jesus kisser.

I am informed by the Gospel of Judas Iscariot.

Judas got a raw deal.

I am also informed by the clarity of non-indoctrination and the curious mind.

Judas has been marked for eternity by possibly well meaning folk but misdirected and Judas' actions have been greatly misunderstood. What would you do?
What if your leader, companion, most trusted adviser and advocate asked you to betray. Would you be the friend that you have purported to be or would you actually betray by not following these wishes. We must remember that they were after Jesus regardless of Judas' finger and kiss and silver paid. We must remember that the wheels had been turning against him, he would be found but the only thing that could be controlled by the 12 (or 13, and I think 13) was how and where.

Asked not to understand, asked not to explain or have the revelation needed or peace it would offer, asked to send shepherd away to be slaughtered by the shepherd.

Judas was no coward but displayed strength and fortitude that I doubt many have, it must be why he was chosen from the go.

I mourn Judas, wish to eulogize him, offer him his proper epitaph, his song -


"You will exceed all of them. You will sacrifice the man that clothes me."

Jesus knew what has to transpire - and if there was divine vision, he knew before he shook that hand of the man who would kiss him.

this makes 4 in a year.

All the raccoons seem to die in my backyard. There are now two perished which I will have to bury later today. K came in the bedroom weeping over the deaths. She is a mother and feels for the mother and children of all animals. Her compassion, sometimes hidden, has always made her beautiful.

nature has a way of knocking the wind out of you.

Ukulele's are a blast to play.

County stickers are due to be on vehicles today - I suppose I ought to go get one or two.

I've no interest in the goings on of wall street thought, again, I ought.

Now I need some wood, paint and a few other things that will go unmentioned as they are interesting only to myself and voyeurs.

night of the long knives

1934 - a total usurpation of power in Germany.
and I've yet to visit the Holocaust Museum in Skokie, Il.

This will be amended quite soon as I have always meant to go but not wanted to go.

In the distance there is a truck backing down a driveway and somewhere near here there are baby raccoons looking forward to a life of hiding and eating garbage.

102

The boy is running a fever, the kittens are getting more playful and there is a load of dishes that I understand are my responsibility.
So I sit here smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee and contemplate firing a vendor that works with our PTO.

This is draft two of this particular post. I don't blame the dishes or paper airplanes for the apparent lack of style today.
I don't blame the newly hatched robin or those awaiting to be hatched on the downspout adjacent to a window looking out from my typewriter.
a fever has no concern for the goings on of the lives it affects.

Reality is a pain in the ass sometimes.

A few things for today - maybe no poem but we shall see.
I was reading a friend of mines blog where she shared an excellent story of strength through defiance and 24 year old bravado - you can read it yourself here. One of the commenters mentioned getting a CCL permit, which I read to be a CCW permit - a license to carry a concealed weapon. There are a lot of folks against this for various reasons but the aforementioned story highlights a point I often make in the face of the "wouldn't it be a better world without guns?" - my answer? - no.  what? you didn't hear that? - It was a resounding NO.
Say the story ended a little differently and the 24 year old was beaten or worse by the two offenders instead of backing off. What was she or the guy she was with going to do about it if it escalated into an absolute horror show? Not a damn thing could have been done except possibly call the police who would have arrived well after what ever could have happened happened.
I firmly believe that all women should carry a weapon that they have been trained to use in the moment of need. I would feel much better if my mentally stable wife would walk around with her SR9c in her purse (and maybe she does, who knows?). 49 states have acknowledged that this right exists for a reason - self preservation, among others.
I usually give this scenario - imagine a large man who stands nearly 6'2" - weighing well over 200 pounds and no-one (including doctors) would describe him as fat. A large animal and can be terrifying to behold. If he met a woman or girl and decided that he was to be a brute - is there anything that can be done to stop him? not by most unarmed females, however, a smallish revolver or auto is an equalizer - one that would stop even the most vicious attack. It is far better to be judged by twelve than carried by six.
I'll end this here but I am sure it may be carried on in the comments.
If you can - get a CCW, train properly and have it should the need ever arise and I hope that it never will. It isn't that you ought to live in fear, it is that you ought to want to make it to bed every night and wake up every morning unharmed.





for some levity...
look what I found!

Four of the most precious kittens - between my and my neighbors back yard. Jackson has already named one.

mittens.

Almost cut my hair

It wasn't the hair I was worried about - This is obvious to the onlookers as I allowed a seven year old to cut it - it was the beard I had concerns over. It survived the seven year old shearing.

Had I done it I would look a little different on top but he insisted and I like to encourage - so I am closely cut and all the scars on my head from years of flying through windshields, hitting pavement (M/Cycle) and one golf club to the top, are now showing.
I am not loved for the scars but because I managed to grow despite them.

Cold all night due to blanket in wash. White summer blanket used when I was younger now barely covering my shoulders to shoes, pulled taut between and wrestled within for some semblance of insulation. I did not wish to awaken my lover so I didn't get close enough to prod the embers of my outer layer.

Beautiful day, although a bit over done on the inside.

Accomplished a lot yesterday and it feels good - warm and toasty like the hives or something. Body now a bit on the worn side and deciding what I am going to do today along the same lines. All thoughts include power tools but what I really ought to do is sit in front of the power tool that brings me that much closer to the goal - namely, the IBM Selectric III - best power tool I have.

The poem I was intending on putting up here today is becoming a broadside from free penny press and may be available for free through this blog - I don't think it has been decided yet on distribution - So, that poem will not be appearing here today or for a long time as I would prefer it be gathered up in the published form. So I will substitute.

only the poor know

only the poor know of love's intensity/ many know only of mergers (marriage)/thus propagating the common ideal.// for love you merge the bodies (sex)/thus propagating life./love, joy, obsession, fixation, release/ and good sleep.

 - Hoc Scripsi

 

good morning everyone - I'm going to bed now.

I almost never write naked - there are times while in bed and after feeling enraptured beyond illumination or prose by the pressing together of two forms and bonding with sweat and efflorescent nothings whispered passionate in each others ear - those times I will roll and pluck out a small black notebook and pen a few lines before returning - but most of all is written while dressed and thinking back with forward anticipation.

pain and poetry

From here, the days just keep getting shorter. This is what informs my day

What would you do if you knew you could not fail? this is the test to know what you should spend you life doing. it is suppose to be rhetorical and/or asked by every guidance counselor of every pimply faced teenager who doesn't know yet what they want to do. I didn't know then - or I did but it wasn't considered a wise career choice.
My answer now? - no longer live through the vagaries of chronic pain - find a way to free myself from the unrelenting haunt that are, the constraints of living that are, physical pain and mental anguish.

What I once wished was to be a poet - to varying degrees I am that now, I live it and it is possibly pain that has given me this aspect, pain that has offered me clarity through pain controlling medications, pain has offered me poetry that does not belong on even the most interesting hallmark cards.

a little on the self

Last night, after making love, outside smoking and the coyotes were getting close, I had my 1911 but after midnight it is too loud - we went inside. Listened to them get ever closer as we fell to sleep.
Now I am looking for a good varmint rifle - something in a .223 as I refuse to be eaten by an animal.

I don't think of myself as a contradiction but as myself - unique as all people should be and alike as all humans are.
a Poet, Buddhist, gun lover, biker, romantic, cripple - these are not contradictions and I practice non-violence in balance to the gun I carry on my side.

Yesterday I got read a smallish version of the riot act by a very good friend for referring to myself as a cripple. He said he winces a bit every time I say it and that I need to find a better descriptor. Maybe he is right - certainly he is honest, intelligent and an excellent friend. It is that I feel crippled, I feel like a Quasimodo hanging from the bell tower yelling "Sanctuary! Sanctuary!" - but I know that I am not a cripple but have been crippled - therein lies a a major difference. In terms of strength and size I am capable of being a monster, frightening to some who don't know me and gentle and kind to those who do. The leg has been shortened and crippled, it has been cut and lives on in pain but when need be I still pick up and hold my seven year old to calm his fears, his tears and his to remind him that no matter how he grows - he is loved deeply and completely. I am not a cripple and as was pointed out by my friend - I would bust the chops of anyone who said so to my face - I have been disabled, but not defeated.

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

Here I am, cigarette in hand...

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

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.

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 

Day of days

Garcia Lorca, born today, today I love you, like everyday but today I weep for this love and its end on a moonless night.
a short vignette of sorts...

Garcia Lorca, my Federico - a poet born to violent end
we sing you, decorate your memory with flowers
we sing you and your thousand gypsy songs
we sing you, we sing you a myriad of songs and stars
caught in the heavens looking down


on a completely different subject depending on ones point of view


AIDS is first reported in 1981 and today is that anniversary (30th) - today I love but not love AIDS - today I weep, profoundly - I think of artists, musicians, dancers, lovers and free men and woman all dying or dead of a disease whose name was never spoken by the elected leader of the time - such ignorance and more research put into the common cold than in research for what was killing and would kill - a fantastically dreaded disease which eats not only at the body but at the mind, soul and spirit.
I was born before AIDS but in large it has defined parts of my life, touched others and, if I can say it, graced the rest.


and Micael, Micael... O, now forever on this day shall I think of you, dance to your being - 

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.

a day in the life

was with the same insurance company for about 14 years on the cars and cycle. Last August when I bought a new bike they quoted me three times what the same policy had cost four years before on a then new bike of the same make and model - I didn't go with them on that - when it came time for house and renter property insurance I went with the same company and although I thought it was high I went with it because what the fuck did I know - well just switched away from them and saved on the cars and houses about 1600 a year - haven't switched the Harley insurance because as of right now I am insuring through Harley and who knows motorcycles better then they?WIth the former company I insured through they would up my premiums every six months and I had to call and negoiate the rates back down and usually prevailed in getting them lower than they were the 6 months previous - yea for me but what a waste of time every six months.
Lesson - want to save money? shop around the insurance and give the big names a try - they will surprise you. I did not go with any company that hadn't been in the business for decades - nor did I go with any that advertised any specific or non-binding % off current coverage.

That is enough about the business side of life...

on the more fun side I have been on a lego building kick for a few weeks and am about to complete the Death Star which I received as a gift two Christmases ago. I love Lego and couldn't think of any better way to wind down the extremely busy weeks that have compromised the last two months - well, Lego and going to the range tomorrow with a good friend, Kevin. We are partners in pain - physical pain, not mental - physical which fucks with us mentally continually.

Not the best poet and certainly not nearly as entertaining as Pearl or Micael - but it will have to do.

a poem perhaps?

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

"if it was up to me, honey,
my beard would be 3 ft. long
I'd never cut my toe nails,
live in Tangier
eating oranges and
writing poems."

     "is that a poem?"

"no, it's simply not true."

If I knew what to write...

I would have done so already.


There are thousands of words lined up waiting for attention at my IBM Selectric III. there is a tenseness in my shoulders which is found to be un-ignorable. I read the Harper's Index and as usual found irritation and disgust among its figures. There is no way out of this mess - only through it, maybe.
Life isn't a rat race but a series of uninteresting mazes without cheese at the end. No cheese, not even the government cheese.
certainly no wine and crackers unless you are in a daycare filled with white folks. proof of God's sense of humor can be found in every bathroom across the nation simply by locating the sink and looking above it at eye level.

written a year and two months ago - a revisit

off the cuff

Most of the greatest poets it seems really are assholes. I believe poets to be highly opinionated egotists bent of displaying to the audience the poet’s mind and naked view, almost a forced voyeurism, of not only the world the poet occupies but the audience that reads them as well. As a poet you must be ballsy and arrogant to even consider participating in the art as an adult as a serious pursuit I mean to say.

hand some women a banana

and they eat it.

Hand it others

and they masturbate on the spot.

off the cuff

but most would talk

about it, indefinitely.

meanwhile, I'll

sleep as sound as poet in

post

coital recreation

aftermath.

This is clearly a post while avoiding an actual post

I've managed to sit back at my typewriter these past few days and get out a few letters I owe to some folks - if you are one of those folks - it'll be in the mail today.

There is the greatest amount of unfinished poetry in my box right now and as where I've the will to finish it, I've not the words or the clarity to see where the fault in the line lies.

I've been avoiding the dentist because I am in no pain - even when I eat a candy bar, which is unusual. However, after remembering all the pain control medications I am on I realized that I wouldn't know if I were in pain or not unless it was as severe as my leg/hip/back/foot. There is a dentist appointment in my future.

I've been selected, without application, as the parent representative of my kids school to interview potential principles along with two teachers and the superintendent. It will be his final choice but my voice will be heard. Quite an honor to be chosen out of 1400 parents - some of whom requested to be the representative. I love interviewing and was always good at it, would have been a police officer if I wasn't so damn distrusting of them.
Some say it is best to change the system from within - I disagree as once you join the group you are part and parcel of said system and gain, though human tendency, a sense of amity and understanding within the group.
people are resistant to change and may villainize the agent of even the most positive of changes.

if never tested, principles mean nothing and have no value.

broke one of my favorite coffee cups today - it had the definition of 'nascent' relayed in a humorous fashion.

sometimes there are things for which no other person can relate without being in situ, alongside your experience. This is the struggle of my poetry about pain.

a recent poet needs to be wrought into shape as a poem - it was that good.

this will receive no such treatment.

there is a king

tuned guitar and placed on the floor.
to live without.
waking up.

I've stacks of magazines on my desk awaiting notice of content, bills that I'd rather not pay as I fail to see the quality of the service and its addition to my life.

my watch has a broken off hand noticed only once at the airport and too late to change it for another. I love watches and collect them - nice ones but rarely wear them, preferring to be unencumbered from time and appointment. preferring to be unencumbered by diploma of life and riches and sun stained shoulders and neck.

but this isn't my life anymore and I don't work or add to a community that does not want words of perspective.
waking up.

ideation of end of life scenarios with tool of end game held firmly in hand but persistence of the flowers in the mornings and birds singing at five am -
waking up.

I remember a moment so brazen, bold - coming now with apple and white tooth smile hidden behind a beard or bad breath.
waking up.

suddenly 80 degrees Fahrenheit, suddenly humid and I sculpt memories out of tar and sand,
this is today.
this is where you can find me.
waking up.

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.

for our second post today - we give you a link -
click here.

Monday monday, pinched nerve and a hard on

awoke with an inability to move my neck and a completely engorged member. This made it difficult to remove myself from the comfort of a king, stationary under a threadbare blanket.

I've three letters to write and have been ignoring my friends somewhat. Not intentional but a movement in a symphonic life teeming with incredulous memory.

coffee is unprepared but waiting.

I am growing more concerned about the influence of people who view me as an enemy. Don't they know I love them, don't they know I sit concerned at midnight about their health.

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

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.

regret

I

   regret

  things

 like

         parking

           spaces

but never lovers.

one

        thinks

       of

            looks

         across

                      tables

                              or

           rooms

but never someone who broke your nose.

 - HocScripsi

Seis de Mayo

To celebrate Cinco de Mayo yesterday I wanted a BLT but had chicken instead.
get it get it get it???

bad joke and I am not up on my game at the moment.

Illinois failed to pass a law legalizing the right of the citizens to protect themselves from harm. All criminals rejoice at the easy pickings! Also, it is an estimated 40 million that the state would have seen in increased revenue from the licensure alone over the next two years. A state going broke turns down revenue by three votes and once again Chicago is the cock block.
better to be tried by twelve than carried by six.

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

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.

prose/poem/prose poem/ as I opine about my poetry slightly

I've started another blog because I liked the url that was available. I have yet to do anything with it other than ramble about my mental abberations.
it is http://mentalslip.blogspot.com
don't expect much there as this blog is still my main place of blogging communication.

I am having trouble choosing poems for the next print edition on PigeonBike - the first four I sent were rejected much to my surprise but upon rereading I can now see what the publisher wants - this is an important lesson in submitting (submission), knowing what the publisher is looking for. Now I am considering the voice that the original two published there were written in. They are heavily influenced by David Ignatow which is a voice I like to write in as it is similar to mine. What I would like is to find a place for my half poetic prose half poem pieces - this is an honest voice that I love but have found no takers that I know of yet. There are some out there right now but we shall see.

as an example:

stunned and lovely

I'm suppose to be writing the most perfect of poems but am sitting around doing nothing. I'm disgusted by the news on the wire and prose badly written meant to move us to tears. but this is nothing that we haven't seen before this is nothing that I've not written before, it's not my birthday so there is no excuse and the book on my nightstand rests with the mark on page 309, SO I trade in bonds to pay for new landscaping and feel really stupid and wonder what I will hear next but not from who.

most of all I really want to be stunned and lovely.

fuck the songs that say differently, it is never easy unless it is. Standing out strongly but in fear and not beautiful but gently. It was last friday night and suspecting that this would be here like it is and I'm not saying good bye.

here's to life!
here's to life.
viva la vida -
a star, quarter,
four fingers of Johnnie Walker
chocking back the innocence
to truly gain perspective.

 - Hoc Scripsi

I love this style and am still learning to breathe in it.

now in NC

From a response to a comment left on this blog    with some additions and edits for clarity, namely my own.

We are now in NC - arriving this morning we were greeted by my extended family as though we were the most dearly loved people of all earth. These are some of the best people I have ever known as they have always been like this toward my wife, son and I.

Lunch, attempt at a nap and dinner with dessert and some memories shared. A beautiful occasion.
It had not occurred to me when I was asked to read the poem and the paragraph from the letter that I would be the only one to read outside of the person giving the eulogy. Out of the myriad of people that my Aunt knew and were ever so close to apparently it was me that she felt a true bond outside her daughters and husband.

I learned today that she kept my book beside her bed where she spent the last eight months of her life and my letters adjacent - often rereading them with utter joy. The weight of the honor I feel and indebtedness to her and her family is immense without being burdensome. We never know how much we truly mean to someone in this life and I am now so touched to know how my letters, phone calls and poetry had lifted her - her daughters even went so far as to say that the letters were a reason she kept going. I only wish she had read the one I was writing when she passed.

though I can no longer dance, I still think every day of the twostep.

That letter along with three more I delivered today among the pile of read/received letters. The total aspect of loss hit me in that moment. If I could ever live so fully and beautifully as she - even half that I would perish a loved and good man. 

Today I read my public testament to her - my words of embrace to her loved remaining here without her deepest constant grace. The most beautiful of words can never offer what she simply did in her warmth and friendship.
Forever I will remember her, always as my beloved friend and her love's magnanimity.

for your name is scrawled across my heart, for these memories tethered there for all time.

We are on a plane at the moment and this was written before I went to sleep yesterday. I cannot express anything on the status of the planet in the last 24 hours and have no comment on even the birth certificate of Obama.

be well all.

I am sure NC is beautiful and I am told the cherry trees will be in full bloom.




a re-post from the twentieth. 

for Aunt Kathryn

My heart is broken.

the post office doesn't deliver to heaven.

and you've crossed the bridge

and are going home


--------



this is my star.
          bewildered,
     hanging down
     our heads
this is my star.

this is my star,
          vainly wishing and
     wishing on planets
     and suns
this is my star.

on bended knees
with clenching fists
praying or raging at your
Christian God

this is my star,
         to wonder and
     wonder and
     wonder,
this is my star.

 - Hoc Scripsi

For Aunt Kathryn

As was proposed yesterday: here is the second part that I am going to read at my Aunt Kathryn's memorial service on Saturday, which we will be leaving for in the morning at approx. 4am.

There needs to be a way that I can step out of my door and straight up to yours, bend space and time, bend light and dark, dematerialize and reconstruct in an instant - there ought to be a way, not eventually, not in the next life but now. It would please me immensely to sit for a cup of coffee or tea with you right now, have a scone or doughnut and laugh at quaint jokes and remark upon the headlines of the local paper. We need this ability more than we need another war, another fastest plane, another super computer or another convening of the Senate.

I lift this coffee mug to you, be well.

with love,

There has been some push back for my want to read this and the poem (read yesterdays blog for poem) selected partially for the reason as it was the last poem of mine she had ever read and this paragraph is the last thing from me she had ever read - both are important to the relationship that we shared and her immediate family who have given their blessing.

I cannot comment too much on the push back but to say - what the hell is wrong with someone when they believe they can dictate the manner in which we grieve? When they can pretend to know what is best in these moments for others. We each grieve on our own, in an individual way; our personal memorials are largely dictated by what we ourselves actually require to heal. What we ourselves need to learn to brave the day without the person we loved so fully.

Listening to Nick Cave and I couldn't be happier about the rain

Target shooting this morning, indoors at my favorite range - going with my favorite girl and my favorite pistol. The inspiration for Guernica was laid today in typical bloodbath inspirational fashion.

One of my favorite paintings - another one would be Van Gogh's wheat field with crows painted shortly before his death - arguably his final painting.

This weekend there will be a family reunion of sorts in NC - memorializing the death of my very good friend and confidant - Aunt Kathryn. I've two siblings - A brother (an Actor of Theatre Undreground fame (yes, that is the spelling)) and a sister of Denver Co. Vet tech profession. She will be going while I am sure my brother will be home holding down the fort of my fathers business.
one and a half days there only and I wish death had better timing that we (K, Jackson and I) could spend more time.
I'll be doing a reading of the last poem I sent to her and the last paragraph of the letter the poem was sent in. I still am unable to properly quantify the loss as I continue to write her letters that I am unable to send. They will be hand delivered to her in Heaven should I be able.

the poem to be read:

the artist dreams of nightsong and thinks of his paintings
 - For Aunt Kathryn

I wish the birds would sing
in the middle of the night
in winter,
though the windows are never open.

I wish the birds would sing in winter
though I stoop to pet a plant
inadvertently knocking over a light fixture.

I wish the birds would sing
in the middle of the night,
lights low, the party over
and missing every painting I’ve ever sold.

I wish the birds would sing
in the middle of the night
in winter,
though purple flowers want their bloom

 - Jhon Baker


I'll later post the ending of the letter but as of now I am intertwined in memory and bereft with melancholy.