but nothing came out. I stared at the blank piece of paper and listened to the new Eels album instead.
April 18, 2014
poem
the obvious end
death
and the mystery of it.
love is a chemical thing,
there is only mystery for the uninformed.
but
still I love
and soon will die;
the poetry of death is inexhaustible.
the poetry of flowers and birds is equally inexhaustible.
and when it rains everyone writes poetry about the rains.
but
we still think of a rising sun
a setting sun
in ignorance that it is the earth
that rotates on an invisible axis.
that we are always in motion,
balancing with the flat of out feet,
sometimes on our knees.
– Hoc Scripsi
April 16, 2014
late night posting
Lying in bed and finding typing difficult to do with any sense of rhythm.
I have Clifford Brown queued up on the iPod and Dawkins as my nighttime reading.
I type now, in the dark, by touch alone.
Medications have been taken and callouses removed, Ruger LC9 on the nightstand – I am naked ready for action.
My nails are long and the moon, nearly full, is no longer blood, calling for the end of times.
I rest easy – thinking long thoughts about David Ignatow, Russia, and the wars in general. I am not a purveyor of the selfie or silly quizzes though I take them out of boredom. I am heavy bored because I lack inner resources. Thank you John Berryman.
My wife wears too many clothes.
April 12, 2014
beautiful day
TO NOBODY:
Sitting on the back porch for the second time this year and today the weather isn’t necessitating my normal hoodie. Coffee, cigarettes and my wife in and out cooking dinner while the boy practices his instruments. I didn’t ride today and should have but was too shaken by my car deciding to accelerate by itself and smashing into another vehicle. No injuries, no damage – just an unsafe car which has found its way, by tow truck, back to the dealer where they will find nothing wrong. My electrical lemon. It is time to rid myself of this car and go with something used with a bed or nothing at all and rely on my cycle to get me around.
I need a cathartic experience
something beyond the rapture
of the faithful.
Time passes without thought and I am still here – now sitting in the dark and typing by touch alone. At least there are my glasses and the wildlife which makes noise out of range of sight to let me know I am not alone.
The asshole neighbor yells at the feral cats like they can understand his anger at having cats as wild animals in addition to the plethora of other wildlife in the area. We need to protect our garbage cans from all sorts of creatures – possibly including the asshole neighbor.
Past my sons bedtime and it is my turn to read to him, cuddle close and enjoy it while he is still just young enough to want it. nearly too old for the closeness of his parents. This depresses me immensely as I think it does his mother. And there will be no more.
“five dogs went into the wildreness
only three came back
two died of guinea worm
and one died of you
Jack Kerouac” – Hunter Thompson
We want our children to be sensitive to poetry but not become poets. My son is a musician and I’m not sure if that’s better. But his talent surpasses mine and anyone I know – I light another cigarette – so he can teach, perform, become famous or whatever he wants – he can be the most musically talented garbage man –
garbage men are the real poets anyway.
and my fucking car won’t work.
– Me
the platitudes of willful resemblance 