a bouquet or even a single flower
I don’t notice the vase
a Van Gogh sitting on my kitchen table
with a note proclaiming love
I prefer sunflowers from my wife
to all other gifts.
June 9, 2011
I prefer sunflowers from my wife
June 8, 2011
coffee
I need to start drinking iced coffee or maybe iced tea. I’m the only one I know that really doesn’t care for iced tea and I absolutely cannot stand iced coffee. iced soy chai – now your talking but why go out and spend five bucks just to sit outside and fuck around on the laptop. It is never too hot to enjoy the home brew – it is never too cold to eat a bowl of ice cream, and all movies watch better with popcorn.
Today’s poem is a few years old and has been published twice – once in Roadkill zen Journal and again in my book, hands on the hips (available from Amazon or signed if you order through the buttons in the upper right hand corner), I have put it up because RKzJ has closed their site and it is no longer available there – this is the bad thing about internet publication, it creates no history. I think I should take screen shots where my poems appear on this world wide web just to have the history for my self – kept in a box at the bottom of a closet.
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togethercoloured
roadside diner,
a dollar for bitter coffee.
I want the hard rain.
I want the long rain,
HARD on my shoulders and face
with hands stuffed in pockets
clutching three dollars.
I want the drowning rain,
pooling underneath
walking feet. Running
shoes cleaned and soaking;
peregrination of two miles
in a Chicago summer,
toward a phone call, paper towels
and over-extracted coffee.
– Hoc Scripsi
June 6, 2011
?
What day is it? Monday? D-Day? going soon to get my head shrunk though I’ve no illusions of grandeur.
Spent the weekend tied to my laptop and when not, watching “Charlie and the Chocolate Factory”. Both versions played and there was some poetry written but not much. Today I owe letters to two friends, maybe three.
I am bound to this mind for eternity – as I am tethered to this coffee and cigarette for the next ten minutes.
I’ve no love for the wicked and therefore hold no hatred –
though I’ve a hard on in the wrong week and my mustache needs a trim.
contemplate my dis-ease, contemplate why it couldn’t have been cancer.
I brush my teeth once a day – sometimes twice. I’ve stopped wearing deodorant as it causes me to itch and turn my armpits red, I need a shower and the ghosts in the windows are ever present while the noise screeches loudly like snow on a fifties television set.
I change my underwear and socks daily, but not my slacks – showering about two to three times per week keeps me clean and I have no particular scent that anyone finds offensive.
I wear shoes from the moment I awake to the moment I lay to sleep.
I drink Orange juice, water and coffee. rarely anything else –
I love guns, fine art and poetry. I love my wife and this is my advice for all – love yer wife, love yer life.
June 5, 2011
Day of days
Garcia Lorca, born today, today I love you, like everyday but today I weep for this love and its end on a moonless night.
a short vignette of sorts…
Garcia Lorca, my Federico – a poet born to violent end
we sing you, decorate your memory with flowers
we sing you and your thousand gypsy songs
we sing you, we sing you a myriad of songs and stars
caught in the heavens looking down
on a completely different subject depending on ones point of view
AIDS is first reported in 1981 and today is that anniversary (30th) – today I love but not love AIDS – today I weep, profoundly – I think of artists, musicians, dancers, lovers and free men and woman all dying or dead of a disease whose name was never spoken by the elected leader of the time – such ignorance and more research put into the common cold than in research for what was killing and would kill – a fantastically dreaded disease which eats not only at the body but at the mind, soul and spirit.
I was born before AIDS but in large it has defined parts of my life, touched others and, if I can say it, graced the rest.
and Micael, Micael… O, now forever on this day shall I think of you, dance to your being –
the platitudes of willful resemblance 