Archive for March, 2010

March 19, 2010

Anyway

by jhon baker

So, I am going on a vacation. My first since driving to California those many years ago. My family’s first vacation as well. Why do I relate this before anything has actually occurred? well, the posting may be sporadic, and I think that Sat and Sun are out as we will be on the road and no telling about Wi-Fi areas or my tiredness once we get to the hotels which do have Wi-Fi, if I am too tired the writing is schizophrenic, enjoyable it may be but not representative. 
So, today what is there? I need to take my Tom Tom and shove it up Tom’s ass as I can’t seem to get it to function properly and so we are going  old fashioned and using maps. Reading Maps is a lost art but both Kara and I can do it with varying degrees of success. When I get home from the trip I think I’ll take my .45 and see what kind of damage it does to the navigator.

Forget that the kitchen is so full of knives

Forget that the kitchen is full of knives.
You are so serious and
I worry because I love you.
The watches are broken with dead batteries
filling the catchall in the hallway;
how do you use up so much nickel-hydride?
You are so beautiful and I
masturbate when I think of you,
specifically on the couch,
in mid-afternoon when you are at work.

oh yeah, thanks for the paper.

– I wrote this

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March 18, 2010

this is/this was

by jhon baker

Last night while ingesting a handful of prescription pain killers and mood stabilizers; my wife sat on the bed, beautiful and alluring, pushing her back on the bed and kissing long passionate depth, we made love, the kiss was among our best the groping was tantalizing , the visceral connection was enigmatically wondrous. In all the world last night there was not another two as deep and powerful as we.
and they say marriage is the killer of intimacy but no, no, no, it is the conjointment that only the profoundness of we know. My wife saved my life, she was the turning point between train wreck and the self I am. All my poetry is for her, this one is also dedicated to her.

this is/ this was
            to my wife, Kara

here, this is/ this was
the scene of our love
left only now to misshapen sheets
and my hands on your hands
    hands of a body
    your body
    eyes of windows immensity
    after evenings hour
    your moonlit being

here, this is/ this was
the scene of our love
and configuration of sleeping bodies
     head to head
     on cased feather pillows
dreamt singing voices
     of your gravity
     after midnights hour
and my obeisant being

this is
this was
the scene of
out love
now a windowless immensity
after mornings hour
and your vanished being

– I wrote this

March 17, 2010

WHEN LIFE GIVES YOU LEMONS, SHUT UP AND EAT YOUR LEMONS.

by jhon baker

ticking of a clock

wife chopping up
vegetables, going through
cabinets and drawers,

cooking dinner with
great efficiency.
the child playing his

computer games and
the cats meowing for some
attention or fresh water.

the furnaces turn on and off
heating a room to 67 d Fahrenheit
(19 d Celsius)
somewhere outside there is

the sound of radios playing
modern urban music
the engine braking of trucks

coming to stop on
or slow toward Shales Pkwy
on Rte. 20.

or the other way around.
but
it drives men mad.

– I wrote this.

New added feature, now you can follow this blog via face book. Look for the widget on the left column and click follow on either the blogspot one of the facebook one. Llike all people wanting to be famous, my happiness is measured by the amount of followers I have. Joking, I am never happy. Happiness is like the theater candy ‘good & plenty’ – this is only true before you open the box, when you invariably find that where they can pass for good you always want one more or maybe two more, but there was not “plenty” available without spending another seven USD – which considering how much journals pay for poetry these days is a lot of fucking money.
That is a really long plea.
Last night I slept well, taking only my normal amount of medications without supplementing with anything herbal or over the counter or out the back door. I hope that this means I will sleep well agian tonight. But, as Bob Dylan once said –
“hope is just a word that maybe you said
maybe you heard
down some windy corner
down some winding curve.” (last thoughts on Woody Guthrie)

how short is this life?

we are still in mourning over Todd Moore. Go there for more thoughts.

March 16, 2010

Todd Moore

by jhon baker

At this, my heart breaks.

Todd Moore – Outlaw Poet 1937 – 2010

Thank you for the words, thank you for the poetic guidance.

going home,
    going home.

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