words of a people aligned in their perfect order
reading old poems over and over
not knowing what to put out there.
the drought extends itself to judgment;
extends itself to dreaming.
a .357 can solve anything.
but,
I’ve been known to take long walks.
– Hoc Scripsi (unfinished and probably not any good either.)
a creative drought and slowing down. I’ve always hated the term writers block because I am not blocked by anything – especially writers. More than that I am simply not writing well lately which this triggers the fear that I will not write well ever again and have I ever written well. My version of writers blockade is that the ideas may come and there are no words to accompany it, no way in so I bite my bottom lip and try but even the typing is off and uninspired.
the last poem I wrote – the last thing of any value that I had written was a short poem that talks about fingering the muse – maybe I’ve offended the inspiration by thinking too much of my work and not enough of the source. Today’s poem is not that poem. Today’s was written at a point of high creativity – when the muse was working overtime and would wear me out daily, like a good lover or construction labor.
too lax to title
fuck you.
I’m tired,
it was nthing
or something
I forget
butitdoesn’tmatteranyway
Like I said
Fuck you,
I am not working anymore tonight
not for you or anyone
I’m too god damned tired
and sore
I can feel the plate
it’s sickening
like
watching you squirm when
I type out –
you’re wearing the wrong
size underwear
regardless,
I will not write
this
for you
tonight
I am too fucking worn
from the day.
pt. 2
of course I lie.
I’m tired
worn
sore
like a man after a days
work
and you know whatitslike
bang
bang
bang
all fucking day
so, goodnight love.
xxxxx xxxxxxxxxxxx
Let’s do it again tomorrow.
I had posted something here earlier and came to believe it the worst thing I’ve ever written so I am sparing anyone else the haplessness of such writing.
I am sorry to have written it and subjected anyone else to it. Accept this as my deepest and most heartfelt apology if you had read it.
I replace it with the following image…
I am the dog that ate your homework.
I’ve lately been reading a book by Alix Strauss called ‘Death Becomes Them’ – it’s a morbid curiosity book about some famous suicides. Good read and I recommend, what I took from the book was further reassurance that we poets are the craziest/ most depressive bunch, a touch ahead of painters and fiction writers, of which I am all three. The other source is a study conducted by Professor Arnold Ludwig, M.D., of the University of Kentucky. The study was titled – methods and Madness in the Arts and Sciences which found better than 9/10 poets had a diagnosable mental illness (probably mostly Depression, bipolar/manic depression, and personality disorders) while visual artists and fiction writers were both in the seventieth percentile.
To me this says that the end of my life is predictable. Once I tire of the MDD (insofar), the chronic pain in thigh and hip and back, Tinnitus and susurrous murmur in my head enough the rest is knowable. On the other hand I am also in the category (according to Ms. Strauss’ research) where I am apt to avoid letting go, married with child – both of whom I adore. So, I guess who the fuck knows. I’ll continue in my obsession with death and suicide in the meantime.
death caressed his cheek and trigger
and sat idly waiting for the resolve.
I’ve noticed lately that my leg has gotten stronger and more capable. I can crouch down fairly easily now to do things like look at the .357s located on the bottom shelf of a display counter. The pain has been increasing with the strength which bothers me as I thought the opposite would be true and I am now more hesitant than ever to make the appointment with the doctor that I know needs to be made.
death/suicide
mental instability
weaponry (guns and knives)
aliens (the outer space sort who look in windows and take notes, also I thought for years that I was from Sirius or hoped rather)
forced voyeurism as being witness unwittingly
and at the moment the last one escapes me as it’s on the downgrade right now.
the shortlist of current obsessions.
Right handed – Left caned
I haven’t always needed three hands.
two had been sufficient.
now it is hard to hold a cane
and do other things as well as previous.
at least
while standing.
– Hoc Scripsi
things are getting weird now.
thank you Troy – me
the platitudes of willful resemblance 