medications, hard liquor.
these frail stilts holding us above deep oceans.
belletristic notations in lost notebooks.
we are of an army finished by approximation, asphyxiation.
we are fast asleep
and Argonaut dreaming.
May 16, 2012
enough light to shadow
illusions of clowns, teeth bared and wickedly grinned.
delusions, grandiose and thinking that my lawn matters to more than the pope.
allusions to escapism outside Chicago, allusions of beauty before the morning, allusions of ballet toes bleeding from the rain.
high colored reality , divisions of flashing white porcelain against tile decadently scarred by misinforming vandals. embassies from god or the prince of Valiumed ladies distressing the floorboards of old missions;
I hang up the phone and turn to go outside for smoking, drinking coffee and dancing in the rain.
though I can no longer dance, everyday I think of the two-step.
stuck, inescapable nighttimedreaming and forcing awake a moment of clarity and pleasant cool air drafting in from racked open doors, the sound of small animals fleeting, the sound of disquiet under moonlight, and I am in underwear with uneven legs bare, uneven mind shifting under weight of trailing thought.
water bottle is empty.
medicine bottle is empty.
there is enough light to shadow.
freight train carrying boxes of cartoon imagination
sounds from one mile east, moving south south east
and into Chicago
metro.
dawn and I hear the first passenger cars slow to a halt but cannot discern the passengers boarding.
– Hoc Scripsi
May 11, 2012
the sun and the moon complete
money
humbly
offers their
flowers
where did you get them? magnificent!
beautiful.
from the discard,
trash heap
the gutter, where everything
comes from.
the sewer, where everything
goes.
– Hoc Scripsi
May 7, 2012
sun and the moon continued
I should give up the blog altogether. I’ve been going through a period of low creativity lately and blogging about it has not been on my to do list.
But, I’ve been thinking. Reading. Refilling the well with new information. I am waiting now for the payoff and waiting isn’t my strong suit.
What I need to do is get down to it and write a bunch of crap which I’ve been resisting. Allow the brain to work its connective magic, there is no other way that each synapse is going to know that it isn’t doing its job. The pretty genius in the corner needs to get out of the corner and meet me half way. There is nothing else really going on that is that distracting except what I distract myself with.
Not that I haven’t been writing and occasionally putting out something worth sharing and so I blame that end of the year burst and depression that followed. To which I am heavily medicated against now but also medicated against the severity of another mania which I miss and see flickers of here and there fighting for attention.
Giving up the blog would be an act of honesty as I now am feeling the dishonesty of keeping up the appearance of having one. Would all three of my readers miss my occasional outreach? Would you notice? Are there more than three of you?
I am reaching for the bottle here and wishing for the stars… the sun and the moon, the shaky days of not knowing if I had a clean uniform for work and if I was going to be fired for my latest outright challenge to the authority of a nameless supervisor. I had never wanted to work but now it is all I want to do. Being disabled/retired at 35 is not all it may seem to be but there is the small check from government and endless guns to play with when no-one is looking.
here is something newish which I was going to send to Take it to the streets but missed the deadline. It is for my wife – the muse that keeps me alive and reaching for the stars.
with cold hands
it’s cold
so I touch the warmth of her thighs
with cold hands, she shivers
gaily we dance under soft comforters
beneath the sounds of jazz belonging to another decade
before our birth
the windows closed locking out the colder winds
we warm and embrace, sweat heat in loving
the minutiae of such good fucking
– Hoc Scripsi
the platitudes of willful resemblance 