words of a people aligned in their perfect order
left lying on the floor
where dropped
in route to somewhere other
turned it’s aspect
apart from and
saintly away
the moment smells of sweat
lying unrested
wearing a buckle attached
tight to a belt,
fastened loose, but
for safe keeping
left lying on the floor
where dropped, dark
brown, augments worn and pale planks
obfuscating
a vision, past, present
a moment varied
– Hoc Scripsi
I am waiting for the moment of inspiration to hit me while I am writing letters and sketching out my journal on a typewriter.
there is a certain dissatisfaction behind failing to get ahead of the melancholy.
I am waiting for the euphoria.
no one can break your heart so you do that little ditty for yourself.
so you break your heart and head
wish the world were different
decadent
and melting away
speed of sound interrupted
There is no thought predominantly in my concussed brain that merits posting. Sitting within a college building, I feel none of the inspiration of youth, knowledge, beauty, and unbridled idealism that college campuses are attributed.
But there is tinny piano echoing down the hall, there are operatic voices with indefinable words ornamenting the stabbed out notes on the piano and sung by children somewhere between the ages of 7 and 15.
word is correcting my grammar while I type at the speed of sound.
the speed of sound interrupted by corrections as if I were on the salt flats in wet season.
I am wearing no helmet and the parachute is dysfunctional.
wet salt gets into everything like play sand.
chafes.
and I look and think – I have not been so lazy but distracted by depression and various ideations which has led to some poetry and other rambling thoughts. This year has been a low of the past several where I have had little published and little written – even a rejection of what may be my best poem – alas! am I not a poet? am I only pretending? Is this ultramarine coloring my beard all in vain? no, I forget how subjective this field is and the whims and moods of a reader are as important as the whims and moods of the writer – or nearly so.
I hold no grudge.
I write anyway.
I am compelled by the narrator. the genius in the corner. the voice of the winds. or it could be the mania.
I prefer an easterly sun
I prefer an easterly sun before I go to bed.
I prefer a smashed finger before a project is finished.
I prefer coffee hot.
I prefer sex sweaty.
I prefer a major fourth under a sharp sixth.
I prefer to lie on my back in the gutter, looking out to the stars.
Cassiopeia
Ophiuchus
Ursa minor
these are things of dreams and sailor visions
– Hoc Scripsi
the platitudes of willful resemblance 