I’ve been staring at the screen for over an hour thinking of something to say that isn’t this, well, it is now. I considered writing a letter to the reader, sort of a ‘dear reader’ thing but that idea faltered as it wrote itself and had it not been on the computer it would have been hung up at the range and shot.
I would just put out a poem or the completed versions of one’s published earlier this week but it’s too late for that as I am already writing.
one of the greatest moments of my life was the discovery that two of my favorite creative people bonded over an album – Tom Waits and Bill Burroughs, The Black Rider. I listen to that now and it is distracting as I am trying to think of what I am doing here without making it sound like a letter, I think I may be failing.
When you get a perfect sight picture and squeeze back the trigger you have a tendency to miss but it can be assured that the bullet went exactly where the gun was pointed when the hammer went down. Nerves, anticipation of recoil, squeezing the grip incorrectly, and other all lead to a fraction of an degree barrel displacement and that gets compounded over the distance to the target. 
I drink coffee and write myself into a sort of stupor where I wander around the rest of the day with a blank slate and a stupid grin on my face, it has been pointed out that I abuse the wrong tipple for stupefaction but I cannot stand what I write when in an inebriated stupor.
I think later today I ought to weld something, anything really as long as it’s metal and not one of my typewriters that works properly.
open window
the cat sits
undisturbed
one of these days
One of these days, I am going to die.
and leave behind all of my sorrow,
joy, and anger.
All the love, I’ll take if allowed.
ascend into the kingdom of exile
as a poet, lover, and sometimes madman.
death shall never rear its distortions
to me, but, it’s beauty shall be mine.
Its touch to offer warmth in solitude.
death shall, inadvertently, immortalize
the memories of this self
and bring with that – comforts to you.
You,
who, in life, had always been my companion
and brought me all it’s renderings
you,
who in my death shall have no place
and in your own shall leave no place
for me. In death, we shall not remember
the names of our dead.
– Hoc Scripsi
the platitudes of willful resemblance 