April 2, 2010
by jhon baker
My son brings me a scorpion… I am tempted to stop there as it is true, fascinating and white knuckle. He brings it to me and asks about how it stings you and wonders about its size and relative effectiveness (at causing death or illness). As we live west of Chicago there are no scorpions here, and especially these deadly ones that he brings me which is suspended in acrylic.
There may be some live readings of my poetry, performed by me, coming up. We shall see. I will film it and post that if any of these happens.
dying roses are not broken promises
literal or not
we bled on pages
and pages and
pages of uncertain poetry.
women bleed with efficiency.
dying roses are not
broken promises as
are crumbling petals
no longer red.
– Hoc Scripsi
maybe later I’ll have more to say, now I only have this poem and a cup of coffee and the few comments above.
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April 1, 2010
by jhon baker
in 1984, Marvin Gaye was murdered by his father in LA. Who believed that?
in 1917 Scott Joplin died in a mental institution, it probably wasn’t known for a few days back then. No internet and all.
I always laugh a belly laugh when I remember that the fledgling day of poetry month is A day for fools. That is what we are – fools.
a poem not about E.E. Cummings
Cummings wrote some wonderful stuff
about the prostitutes of France.
painting them remarkably deteriorated and
painfully beautiful;
the fragrance of nightly breath enough
to usher tears into existence.
so many,
I’ve painted and/or sketched words
about were this.
more we’ve made great who
were not, some
lent away greatness, now
insignificant.
never have I been a whole lover.
never have I known to give at such a level.
only that I have been the prostitute
in some sense of sense;
never the sexual admirer
that was E.E. Cummings.
– Hoc Scripsi
Tell your friends and lovers
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the platitudes of willful resemblance 