Archive for September, 2010

September 29, 2010

by jhon baker

I’m behind on everything – even sleep.

Jackson, my son is sick so the wife and I have not been sleeping and might as well be sick. O, to live in a sick house.

I’ve two major poems to finish and two letters to write – one to my lovely Aunt Kate who does not deserve to have me fall behind on my letters to her and another to a fellow writer who wants to get in on the mid twentieth century communication kick.

the book is out and selling well enough, (they make excellent Christmas presents  – or Hanukkah gifts as well) and I would like to thank the people that have helped to get it further out there – thank you. Send me a photo or picture and I will link to your blog on my page here. It’s the least I could do.

napping now before I go to the DMV and register my truck – I have one more day until I am more behind on that then I can afford.

the tulips surrender
in the fall
the tulip surrender

 – hoc scripsi

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September 25, 2010

Streetlamp desperation

by jhon baker

we move back and forth, swaying – we move. we are not barnacles – darting out but concrete in place, the tides affect us and coffee awakens us. we move, together or solitarily our tides effect the ocean we wax and wane, grow and become substantial – shrink and become embittered, embattled. It is our narrative.

for me writing is a solitary art, I cannot go into cafes or restaurants and write, I cannot have company at all and produce at a rate any faster than the raccoons under my porch hunt in the daytime. The exception would be a bustling cafe where the noise reaches an apex that become a humm, analogous to the noise that my brain produces in silence –  there is anonymity then and in place you are alone without social contact unless you will it or welcome it. Restaurants always have the server to interrupt and they unequivocally hate it when someone sits there and writes no matter how good the tip is or how short the visit is. the perception is always of the wanna be beat emo clown who nurses coffee for hours believing that they alone are granted rights of intrusion into another persons livelihood. So I normally sit in a small room at the back of the house, where the walls are a dominating red, where there is a couch in case I get tired, where there are my books in case I want to pretend I have laurels to rest upon, I don’t.
I’ve chosen to go back through my poets – from Sappho to J. Milton and maybe find the right right muse to alleviate me from this consistent creative drought – but maybe I ought to go into the mountains or get lost in the desert. I would bring along WCW or Ignato because bringing along either Huxley or Morrison would be less a learning experience and more an exercise in imitation.

I am having trouble finding an end to this narrative so here’s a photo.

September 21, 2010

by jhon baker

I imagine Juan Grande Pecador singing…

“foi na cruz
foi na cruz
que um dia
Meus pecados castigados em Jesus
Foi na cruz,
que um dia
foi na cruz”
 (Brazilian hymn)

fuck it.

I’m going to bed.

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September 20, 2010

unfinished

by jhon baker

I think what I need to do is to come up with a long list of possible topics and/or post titles – this way I will not be sitting here trying to think of what great or insignificant piece of knowledge/experience would best be displayed on this page.
I wouldn’t mind your suggestions, i.e. what would you like to read my current opinion on.
One post I have planned but not the will to write is what I am trying to do with poetry. More or less a short treatise on what I believe makes good, lasting work.

this poem holds no bearing on the former post.

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unfinished
one hand moves swiftly against the other,
(a final act of
expression.
a final act of
rebellion.)
wisping eagerly
against the fiddling wind
life dropping,
weighted,
still
on tiled, unclean
bathroom floors.
 – Hoc Scripsi
September 20, 2010

unencumbered

by jhon baker

this is for my friend Troy, heal fast my brother.

also an excerpt from my book…

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unencumbered
I am unencumbered by two inches
            of my right leg
just as Jerry Garcia was unencumbered
            by a middle finger
and Indian Larry by his pinkie
I am unencumbered by thought or want
            from the single life of chasing
            the girls and boys around
not unlike how death rattles free
            our common concerns
 – Hoc Scripsi
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