November 22, 2010
by jhon baker
Rain poured this morning so I stayed in bed until after noon. Sitting now at a local shop (okay, it’s a Starbucks) and it started raining hard again. How did I know this? it was not looking out the window or seeing the bright lightening flashes but the sudden increase in pain in my leg. The chunk of metal astc as some kind fucking antenna for weather changes and sudden ones are the most painful.
Waiting for someone to appear here and in the meantime looking like one of those writers with their MacBook open writing all alone, against the world.
I’ve nothing to write about right now other than right now. There is no-one interesting here and my new friend has yet to show up. It is raining so hard I hope he has a ride but I don’t know as I can’t really say I know him all that well yet.
had rain outside the local coffee shop
bad art, pale blue walls
children left alone in
the vestibule, waiting
for their mother to bring
the car round
– Hoc Scripsi
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November 21, 2010
by jhon baker
I often find my self weeping at television shows and charity commercials,
embarrassed and confused about it I tend not to watch much television
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November 19, 2010
by jhon baker
in general, we don’t speak.
passing fitfully, neatly drawn out.
the photograph
on the wall
strays the story to length
but I don’t speak of it
directly.
indifferently.
aberrantly it hangs,
an hour off,
two hours.
witnesses the coffee
cigarettes, alcohol
women
dirty dishes
and we
gathering adjacent to
its unique
(all evidence against)
shared frailty, cannot
be brought
to words beyond
the manual.
– Hoc Scripsi
image from Willow’s Magpie #41
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November 17, 2010
by jhon baker
it had been seven hours since the moment of clarity and now we questioned it entirely. a moment of obscurity – and still it had been seven hours since.
I loaded my gun and walked amiably toward the back bedroom where the typewriter was kept and once entered sat down to feel out a confession of sorts but only to be read by my god or therapist. some words crashed out effortlessly while others necessated manual extraction via a syringe into fingertips.
the last time we were here my ulnar nerve was nicked and the sensation fled out of one and a half fingers.
now we allowed it to escape though minute burning forced our eyes to watch and our brain to repudiate its association.
here, the faces of clocks tell no hour. hands strength to point forced into submission by gears and precise Japanese clockwork.
and faces painted adorn walls never lit.
image found at Magpie tales prompt #41.
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the platitudes of willful resemblance 