words of a people aligned in their perfect order
06/05/2010 Federico Garcia Lorca,
happy birthday
They disappeared you
on the 16th of Aug
and assassinated you on
a moonless night one or two days later.
in 1936
you had died for all time.
fifty years later a memorial was erected
on the spot where you were killed.
in recognition of your talent
in apology of your end.
and while you weep for Ignacio, our
flood of tears are for you.
– Hoc Scripsi
“Every writer, without exception, is a masochist, a sadist, a peeping Tom, an exhibitionist, a narcissist, an injustice collector and a depressed person constantly haunted by fears of unproductivity”- Edmund Bergler
I am forced to take today off from the typewriter and do other things. Don’t take this as complaining, my distractions are human and interesting, thus may yield something fruitful when I do sit in front of the typer and write. I only comment on it at all for the simple reason that today I wonder if the creative drought has ended like I thought or does it continue even to now? I’ve certainly had greater periods of output and quality but isn’t this getting into the semantics of what I mean by creative drought?
my eyes sting and are watering making it hard to concentrate.
I quoted the above as this fear of unproductivity that haunts me even at this very moment. Should writers be defined by their shared concerns and malady’s, reading the above assures me that I am a writer – I will gladly admit to any of those and more!
at the track
I don’t go to the track and so this
poem cannot get
written.
neither do I run (cannot)
or watch horses and dogs
chase rabbits or carry little men
and women.
however, should I need,
there are countless OTB
establishments around and a track
not too far away
in Arlington Heights, Il.
– Hoc Scripsi
I live in Elgin so there is also a gambling boat nearby where I could go and blow my dividends or jerk off to the losing of heaps of cash while I witlessly hope I can win and become addicted to gambling. Another thing that can be added to the list is that most if not all writers have the addictive tendency, I mean this with much affection toward other writers and hope that they see the truth of these things and are not lying to themselves, but are these 100, truly without exception? Probably only 99 though I know of no exceptions.
Josephine Baker and Allen Ginsberg share a birthday (born twenty years apart) today. It is easier for me to have two people I admire have the same birthday and I could only wish that all my friends shared a birthday on Christmas and that I was not born on Christmas, not to be difficult but I would like my own day once in a while.
the Scottish poet, scientist and much more, G.F. Dutton died on Monday 31 May.
He wrote austerely passionate poems which search and illuminate the world about us. They are as much explorations as his notable scientific work: both draw on one continuous spectrum of experience.
The above is an excerpt from wonderfully written obituary which can be found at bloodaxe books.
when we know that there were no more deaths during Memorial Weekend (US Holiday) I will complete the work that is my reaction which is not the poem that follows.
LIT MAGS
being rejected by the highbrow
lit mags is good for me.
helps remind me who I am.
where I am from.
which most certainly is not in the
posh offices of the new yorker or a
public space.
I submit to them now just to
be an ass, I imagine that some
poor schmuck sits there and has
the job of reading the unsolicited submissions
only to send out the kindest regards of the
editors. So, I send what I think is good
but I know will never make the mag.
my exercise in futility, I do
this instead of going to church.
the beer I drink tonight is for that
poor schmuck that I am going to
submit the ingredients of cracker jack to
tomorrow.
this is the part of life that gets
me hard in the morning.
– Hoc Scripsi
the platitudes of willful resemblance 