the platitudes of willful resemblance

Already having been here for an hour and a half and out of coffee but rich in apple fritter – the radio plays Steve Miller much to a lack of excitement about it from the general crowd gathered in the IV infusion lab at Sherman Hospital.

We started this morning at the wound care clinic and waiting for a surgeon to look at the near 7 cm wound in my MIL’s chest.

but for another topic – I have bought a copy of my own book for my wife’s first generation Nook – she now has a color Nook and I am borrowing her old one to read Mark Twain’s Autobiography as it is a rather large book and difficult to hold while in bed, lying down and preparing for restlessness in the dark. Anyway – I then got an app for my iPhone that makes available my Nook books on my iPhone – the line breaks are not correct on the iPhone and I cannot imagine reading something like a book on the phone that should really be for making phone calls and not playing games, checking e-mail, taking photos and all the other crap one can do with the phone. I wouldn’t be surprised if the next iPhone was designed to do everything including talk for you and organize your garage but not make phone calls – and they will change the name to what the device actually is – a handheld personal computer – desktop, laptop and the handheld – next real step is the implant singularity.

I am tangential by nature.

I like being able to carry my book, as in MY book, with me everywhere and have it take up no added room. This is especially handy as I don’t memorize my poems and try to forget that I’ve written most of them – now when someone says – tell me a poem, I can bust out my phone and do just that.

St Sebastian

walked, mid January,

through snowy woods

stepping lightly the tracks

of those travelled before,

leaving some for those behind.

no turns but trees to rest upon

no crickets to sing or call

no voices but those of

my companions

no impressive sigh

but that of our feet

crushing through

and impermanent

as I looked further,

down the path

we traveled,

it was Sebastian I thought of

and his arrows.

– Hoc Scripsi

that is one of the first poems written in this year and I wonder what will be the last completed. I wonder what will be the first of 2012 unless the earth comes to a mind bogglingly spectacular end tomorrow night.

I do not look forward to organizing my paperwork for the tax man/woman/alien.

my MIL sleeps lightly in the barcalounger while being infused – I type and listen to bad radio commercials.

I am informed by bad advertising and pulp and the slush pile which my poetry occupies.