GO TO:
for this weekends poem!
July 30, 2010
Mad Swirl
July 30, 2010
In the hospital with my Father in Law
another stroke and I wish for him that his pain would end. I love this man that gave his daughter to me and her pain is my pain – his pain is our pain.
this is all I have to say for now.
July 29, 2010
Sunflowers
Van Gogh, 120 years dead by his own quarrel with life lost.
Recently I was at the Chicago Art Institute and stood in front of The Bedroom – breaking tears as he is the only painter that can make me weep with a stroke from his brush. His genius and madness is evident on every square centimeter of canvass.
I have never seen his final painting, Wheat Field with Crows, and wish to stand long in sight of it, I am convinced that I will understand when it the presence of this masterwork. A good reason to visit Amsterdam.
it’s Thursday
woke up this morning and it was pouring rain, welcoming spring I slept in
late late. I had dreams that although I was married with a boy and my age,
I was naked in High School, but in dream I really didn’t care.
My older brother hit me in the head with a golf club,
while I was six, according to my mother,
broke open my skull,
according to the golf club.
Now I blame him for everything. like the instability.
– Hoc Scripsi
July 28, 2010
meant to do something today, but I forgot.
I woke up this morning and put jeans on, this is not normal as I usually wear slacks with a nice t-shirt but this morning I intended to do something like tend to the lawns growth. I started in on drinking coffee and thinking, plotting out my day and noting that instead of getting out of bed at a reasonable hour I chose to spoon with K for an extra few hours.
the coffee had expired while I was dressing so what I drink is fresher and more palatable. but unfortunately delayed.
Charles Mingus’ jazz symphony ‘epitaph’ plays over the afternoon. the afternoon which is supposed to be filled with thunderstorms and rain for the grass and other various plants. overcast but without notice from the heavens.
I want for the rain, I want for the phone to ring (though I despise talking on it), I want for something to happen that doesn’t involve what had already happened.
I’ll never get to the lawn today and will feel woefully under dressed for everything, not that I will be but that truth does not invalidate the former truth.
more coffee will have to be made and the day will progress regardless of my wants, desires and frustration at sleeping so long everyday these past several days. not sleeping well at night followed by sleeping all too well during the day – one aggravates the other I know and both are caused by the withdrawal from the medication.
no-one told me how long the withdrawal is going to last because the psychiatrist was upset that I cold turkey’d it and was concerned that I would not acquiesce to her, or rather defer my opinion to her professional opinion. Simply put it robbed me of the pure essence of life, rounding the edges and blunting the sword does not give me the highest opinion of life without the viewpoint of abnormal psychosis.
shit, I think I lost control of the post and am no longer aware of the plot.
have a poem…
my child
and you/ my child,/ who lay there sleeping,/ easily resting with lights still on/ who I dare not wake by moving// my beautiful child/ who soundly breathes/ heavy/ lying there next to me for comfort,/ I do not have the courage to move to out the light/ and hope your mother will chance by to snuff it that you may sleep still,/ dreaming what it is you dream and never remember.// always my playful, adored child/ somnolent in the house that surrounds/ and the father who fears to wake you/ accidentally.
– Hoc Scripsi
July 27, 2010
Thankfully, it’s fatal
I’ve not been present for the past two days. I would ask, beg, plead for forgiveness but I do not believe anyone has been offended or should be if they were.
there’s a painting. Acrylic and ink on four canvasses. 54.5″x43″
The inability to have been present was entirely within my scope of control and I simply chose to not be or rather I spun into a depression that I am still in the grips of but am now choosing to at least be productive to see if that lifts me from the mire I find myself in. This isn’t a good time for depression as I typically hate my poetry and prose when I am this down and this depression has chose to not set any new precedents in that vein. Posting may be a doorway out or into an abstract depression which would also be fine.
abstract depression being far more preferable to standard depression
So, here I am in mid post with two photographs that have little to do with anything, but what is this post about anyway?
I long to write poetry about the beauty of flowers but I either pick them or they wither while the words lie in wait for the impressionistic moment when they will be most needed. So the flower dies and I write vignettes about soup, carpeting and the clean feeling teeth have after eating a fresh apple.
who wants poetry about flowers? who wants photographs about flowers?
just in case you wanted a photograph of flowers
the sun hides
– for Jackson
The sun hides
behind clouds &
cold wind
but
wishes
to
shine down on
my garden
for the flowers
– Hoc Scripsi
just in case you wanted a poem about flowers – sort of.
the platitudes of willful resemblance 