but it’s no good,
the secret out,
and I am on my knees.
what I say is holy,
holier than the tomes of great men
whose bodies are dust;
I can no longer blow them for good graces
except by exhale,
head buried to the lap
of dead gods turned to ash.
April 21, 2013
a luddite in the 21st century
I have a subject in mind
but that isn’t what this poem is about.
Judas Iscariot, and I’ve been writing him
for months
but that isn’t what this poem is about.
drinking coffee and listening to the symphony
with projects that need attention all around.
at one time I thought I would stand while writing
to allow the body to sway into part of the meter.
but now I just sit here and type.
BANG BANG BANG
on the keyboard of a typewriter
a luddite in the 21st century
attracted buy the trappings of Steve Jobs innovations
but preferring to still use my old IBM
but that isn’t what this poem is about.
I’m trying to reach Judas Iscariot through song
to no avail, through prayer
but I don’t believe.
a hard poem to write and little is known
so I make it up and type on
BANG BANG BANG
really striking the keys though it makes no difference
to the imprint on the paper
but that isn’t what this poem is about.
later today I will rewrite this poem into my iMac
computer that’s sitting twenty feet away
and wonder why I didn’t write it there in the first place
but I know I know I know
and I will sit here again tomorrow and do the same thing
with coffee, symphony music and projects all around
that need attention that they will not receive.
but that isn’t what this poem is about.
what is this poem about?
I don’t know.
April 11, 2013
Ramble
I am willful and my mind is scattered. I have nothing to write about at present though my moleskine is filling with ideas and treatments. short thoughts. Once, when I was young I thought to be a cartoonist was the ideal for me – but I made a better comedian and only made the family laugh once at the kitchen table – I am not depressed but hauntingly even. Not going insane is a new thing for me and I haven’t been enjoying the anxiety that comes with waiting for the other side of this enjoyment. The drugs work but I don’t like how they work – this is normal. Call me Mr. Jones.
But my main ambition as a child was to be a writer and catalog what made my aspect seem to feel as though I had been ill my whole life. I still feel that way and now am broken by this and an SUV that blew off a stop sign. Such is life.
Listening to Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony with my family while my son works on a research report on Beethoven and this is a wonderful moment. I can never write to Beethoven – as if he had said everything that there is to say and the power with which he says it cannot be matched.
I recently finished a longer poem – long for me stretching to three pages and am now mostly concerned about where to place it.
March 26, 2013
so what!
So, I haven’t posted in a while… So What?
I have no skin, but a basketful of protections from the sun and I am waiting for the coffee to brew at 4:43 pm. What I have in my cup is cold and coffee isn’t meant to be enjoyed cold – no matter what you or your fancy coffee iced lattes think. For coffee to be anygood cold it has to be brewed with a double batch of grounds and served over ice – even then I cannot stand it but normal coffee ice cold is no good, damn you and your alternate opinions. This is where the advantage goes to tea – I pour a hot cup of tea and drink some, forgetting about it for awhile and when I return to it it has become cold as forgotten things do – but I can drink it regardless of this as tea can be served hot or cold at the same strength.
advantage: Tea – but I enjoy coffee more and it is why I smoke now – to further enhance the coffee experience out in my garage where there is no organization but an ashtray and my motorcycle. Also a BB Gun to shoot raccoons in the ass when they get too friendly.
I just finished a Novel where one of the secondary characters suffers the same mental aberration as I and as where I can normally identify with my characters like this I found this character to be a reflection of popular symptoms and not reality – or his mental depravity was too close to home and I divorced my mental aspect from his. In the end the book wasn’t very good and failed to live up to the promise that the authors previous work had made. Now I am rereading “Dream Songs” by the one and only, John Berryman. This is never a let down no matter how many times I read them.
coffee, cigarettes and waiting
I am staring at this black piece of paper
with four poems waiting to be written;
drinking coffee but
wonting for something else entirely.
my ears are dirty with grime
and later I’ll shower.
right now I am not adjacent to godliness
but God doesn’t drink coffee
or smoke endless cigarettes turning on the next line.
my poetry isn’t in vogue at present
and I cannot support what is.
Bukowski imitators.
and I am going gray;
easily depressed by these rejections,
waiting for more coffee to brew
so I can kill myself
with these several cigarettes
or maybe a gun.
- Hoc Scripsi
February 25, 2013
poem
god, or somebody,
bless
him
I take the doctors pink and white pills
and the blue/green one
with water before bed and
again when I wake up
everyday
and, supposedly,
they keep me sane and stable.
it’s not pleasant to die on the cross
or in back alleys and one way streets.
when I’m sick I swallow vitamins
and drink a lot of orange juice.
it helps.
and my hair doesn’t fall out
any faster then the approaching middle age.
I do not have cancer
though I smoke a pack a day.
It’s not charming to be awoken after dying
without permissions from the dead.
yesterday I spent an
inordinate amount of time in bed
for no reason
and had a lot of dreams,
none of which I remember now.
life, is boring – Henry says
and friends, I believe him
- Hoc Scripsi
