April 12, 2016

What a way to go!

by jhon baker

and it is here

where I throw in the towel

that I’ve carried around with me for these many years.

no longer contributing but relegated now as guest.

to be honest, I couldn’t wait to be out

and now that I’ve written it out loud

we can finally know the truth.

 

– Hoc Scripsi

January 6, 2016

MOLON LABE

by jhon baker

here we are at two in the morning

2.16 to be precise

and sleep is in the past and far from me now

I eat Reality Sandwiches

and drink coffee, black, out from a chipped mug

 

I seem to be the target of spam lately

and with this I admit to the digital age

fully with handheld computers

and online dictionaries and

the classic writers thesaurus

 

and I read Bartlett’s book of anecdotes

to substitute for any actual experience

which is a lie

though I sleep away in relative safety

next to a loaded revolver

 

MOLON LABE – out from my cold dead hands

and of course I speak of poetry

long looks and bedroom post-coital whispers

it is not enough that the sun should rise

in a few hours but that the moon is full

 

 

– Hoc Scripsi

August 30, 2015

slowly

by jhon baker

slowly slowly

 

everything is working out

but slowly

I’m a big man getting smaller

but I’ll never be small

I was built for comfort

and post-coital embrace

 

but I corner well

 

 

 

 

August 16, 2015

am not asleep

by jhon baker

been awake too damn long and I’m sick of it.

nothing to do with the cup of coffee I just poured myself in one of my Vincent mugs.

I suppose it isn’t that late but I am hungry and looking for my angry fix.

I haven’t been sleeping well.

and the windows have faces that I can’t comprehend.

I put on my goggles and peer out into the darkness of the backyard sitting next to my wife who is equally as perplexed as I am but today I did not forget my medications.

I still feel the world spin and note the stench of cigarettes and dying sunflowers.

better than earlier when I could scent out the unique putrefaction of several birds finding only one feather.

but the couch got moved.

generally enervated and bone pain sick of it.

half-banana moon, toothpicks on the highway, sick of it.

skin falling off and miswriting sin, a lack of croutons in soup, sick of it.

tattoos, assassinating public figures, the FBI comes and visits me at six am, sick of it.

or I am in stir, a padded room with nothing but this white computer and the insatiable need to sleep.

or I am in a wheat field with crows thinking about a .38 special.

or I am in bed, lying prone, ready to fire with a hard-on and magazine dreams.

add a new category.

eleven: forty-six pm – my eye lids are heavy and I am over tired.

goodnight.

goodnight.

goodnight.

August 15, 2015

Time won’t let me go

by jhon baker

August 15th – 11:33 prime meridian

time won’t let me go.

memories don’t fade fast enough for some people.

the world is so difficult to give up and I’ve a fully loaded six shooter

shooting .410 bore shotgun shells next to me as I write this.

I’m freshly cleaned and glistening with cleanliness.

 

I am at the right hand of god prepared for revolution;

my nails are clean as I’ve cleaned them also.

 

days go by like cars on a highway and I don’t know what to do with them,

I hide in my home with too many rooms unused and too much carpeting to vacuum.

catatonia,

and I order toast with marmalade.

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