words of a people aligned in their perfect order
a short, bad poem
I look back through my notebook
and find no poetry.
apples, pears
peaches, penumbras, oranges
mangoes
pomegranates
fruits of the grove stand at
the local grocer.
I find bananas in several local cafes.
in dream I am at this
fruit supermarket;
counting the aisles and cashiers,
wearing pajamas
and blue memory foam slippers.
unselfconscious of naked shoppers
who fail to wear fig leaves
hiding their shame
the air is not tense with rain
swelled clouds pass over
leaving only blue sky
——–
spirited glow of sun
leveling with dying grass
casting long shadows
——–
fireflies dance to make love
already
in yearning
——–
three haiku (sort of) – Hoc Scripsi
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
never write when it rains, it always ends up about the rain so I start with the rain and end it with…
I watch my wife shave her legs and remain hidden, covered by the bathroom door.
the platitudes of willful resemblance 