I love the moon at 3 pm
on a regardless Saturday
at the end of the month.
sun still warming my upturned face.
– Hoc Scripsi
January 4, 2012
I slept twelve hours
and I’m still tired. Bukowski suggested that one ought to take a three day nap every now and again to recharge the batteries, being a father and husband does not allow such naps but would I ever indulge if there could be a way.
Two links – you might recognize them from yesterday but then again, you might not..
These are both truly good issues put out by two very good publishers containing poetry by good poets and of course – myself – the first has one and arguably two poems depending on how you read them – I wrote it as one and a half so there it is. The second features me as a poet and contains three poems- both contain a lot of good writing besides mine and should be read a few times through for affect/effect.
– Just for updates sake – Yesterday my truck was broken and my diagnosis was spot on. Now it is fixed and waiting for the next coil to go.
Yesterday I wrote nothing after the blog post and today I think I am going to scribd something – my new years sort of poem.
Writing will become the object of today after I take a shower when I get home from the hospital where my MIL is receiving today’s infusion and tomorrow morning will be more of the same while the afternoon finds me in a tattoo parlor getting the design finalized for the next portion of the left arm half sleeve.
December 31, 2011
the great idiot of us all
When I was growing up I was sure of two things. 1. I was retarded and 2. that I was adopted. – eventually I learned that 1. no and 2. no.
however, there is lingering doubt remaining about both only because my nature is different and odd and my nurture is fantastically imprinted.
I was also told that I couldn’t carry a tune and was in speech therapy because I was monotone and thought to be tone deaf – both of these ended life being not true as I have become an accomplished musician and a pretty good singer.
If I was so motivated – this would be the start of my autobiography – or my memoirs as they call them.
what follows is probably terrible or terrific…
the great idiot of us all
the rain sleeps;
passed the nickel
through gates of wrath
after
observedly pounded on
windows and
doors and windows
doors and windows.
slept under lit porticoes
and flooded swails.
– last night I wrote this but may take it back
December 30, 2011
a busy day or at least a busy morning or how I learned to fill out medicare paperwork…
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.
the platitudes of willful resemblance 