April 18, 2014

poem

by jhon baker

the obvious end

death

and the mystery of it.

love is a chemical thing,

there is only mystery for the uninformed.

 

but

still I love

and soon will die;

the poetry of death is inexhaustible.

the poetry of flowers and birds is equally inexhaustible.

and when it rains everyone writes poetry about the rains.

 

but

we still think of a rising sun

a setting sun

in ignorance that it is the earth

that rotates on an invisible axis.

that we are always in motion,

balancing with the flat of out feet,

sometimes on our knees.

 

- Hoc Scripsi

April 16, 2014

late night posting

by jhon baker

Lying in bed and finding typing difficult to do with any sense of rhythm.

I have Clifford Brown queued up on the iPod and Dawkins as my nighttime reading.

I type now, in the dark, by touch alone.

Medications have been taken and callouses removed, Ruger LC9 on the nightstand – I am naked ready for action.

My nails are long and the moon, nearly full, is no longer blood, calling for the end of times.

I rest easy – thinking long thoughts about David Ignatow, Russia, and the wars in general.  I am not a purveyor of the selfie or silly quizzes though I take them out of boredom. I am heavy bored because I lack inner resources. Thank you John Berryman.

My wife wears too many clothes.

 

 

April 12, 2014

beautiful day

by jhon baker

TO NOBODY:

Sitting on the back porch for the second time this year and today the weather isn’t necessitating my normal hoodie. Coffee, cigarettes and my wife in and out cooking dinner while the boy practices his instruments. I didn’t ride today and should have but was too shaken by my car deciding to accelerate by itself and smashing into another vehicle. No injuries, no damage – just an unsafe car which has found its way, by tow truck, back to the dealer where they will find nothing wrong. My electrical lemon. It is time to rid myself of this car and go with something used with a bed or nothing at all and rely on my cycle to get me around.

I need a cathartic experience

something beyond the rapture

of the faithful.

Time passes without thought and I am still here – now sitting in the dark and typing by touch alone. At least there are my glasses and the wildlife which makes noise out of range of sight to let me know I am not alone.

The asshole neighbor yells at the feral cats like they can understand his anger at having cats as wild animals in addition to the plethora of other wildlife in the area. We need to protect our garbage cans from all sorts of creatures – possibly including the asshole neighbor.

Past my sons bedtime and it is my turn to read to him, cuddle close and enjoy it while he is still just young enough to want it. nearly too old for the closeness of his parents. This depresses me immensely as I think it does his mother. And there will be no more.

“five dogs went into the wildreness

only three came back

two died of guinea worm

and one died of you

Jack Kerouac”  – Hunter Thompson

We want our children to be sensitive to poetry but not become poets. My son is a musician and I’m not sure if that’s better. But his talent surpasses mine and anyone I know – I light another cigarette – so he can teach, perform, become famous or whatever he wants – he can be the most musically talented garbage man -

garbage men are the real poets anyway.

and my fucking car won’t work.

- Me

 

March 31, 2014

first little flying bug of the season

by jhon baker

it’s dead now.

I took it’s life

as it was crawling across my computer screen.

 

as if my life were so important.

 

I can be such an asshole.

March 31, 2014

have I ever posted this before?

by jhon baker

part 3

 

 

the good girls gave in

to enfant terribles of late night

sophistication, movie drive-ins;

Caligulas of teenaged heterosexual addiction

homosexual a priori instinct.

 

ultramarine blues playing on in back room wasteland

tones, color, emotions of form.

she sips brandy and smokes cigars

a Cognac dipped haze, muted consideration

sand paper verses of strange fruit in sequined dresses.

 

we are the drunkards of brass rail barfly joints;

we celebrate half broken neon signs.

we are the soulful moth occupying

the half-light of fading streetlamps.

we are the desperate, misconceived.

we’ve shirts off in a moment of frenzy

and misaligned allusions to greatness

we are the bop shambala meditations

of time-space inequity.

 

and I cannot free you this,

heal you this.

 

but I am with you,

in a body beautiful,

shattered, crying out

on back porches, smoking, singing,

dancing you with crazed two-step and Spanish tango.

protean tongues lapping at the innocence of milk,

slingshot flames and firecracker wisdom

twisting our bodies around images

and starry night scenes

on freshly made beds too small for comfort.

 

sheathing my pen in high fidelity smiles,

we weep like soft-skulled school children

- aesthetes of playground bike rack bloody noses.

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