July 12, 2011

no title

by jhon baker

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.

 

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July 11, 2011

suddenly in the arms of Aeolus

by jhon baker

and Zues.

This is the turn on of morning cigarettes altered by the prevailing forces of Greek mythology. Luckily my coffee wasn’t spoiled nor was my copy of Mojo., which is important as it is a costly mag with a crap cd glued to the front.

a poker hand has gone bad on mt. Olympus. but like all men fights it’ll be over soon and there will be a beer bought and laughter about the forgotten incident that kicked it off.


------------


the light has sometimes painful burning

the light has sometimes painful burning but I miss the sun on my up turned face.

 the
 light
 has
 sometimes
 painful
 burning
 but
 I
 miss
 the
 sun
 on
 my
up
 turned
 face.

                                            the
                               light
                                                     has
                       sometimes
                                            painful
                                                         burning
                                                                         but
                                              I miss
                                                             the sun                           
                                                                            on my
                                                up turned
                            face.

– Hoc Scripsi

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July 9, 2011

obviously

by jhon baker

everything has worked out with the upload now.

everything is in place. and now it is about the words, thoughts, poems and a certified lunatic, lover, poet.

my brain has been cold for the past few days but is warming back to normal now. Yesterday the whites were pulsating and greens were were in tangent.

Suddenly I could taste the wood paneling after a fire but there were Vargas posters in the bathroom (Varga Girls) and an even lovelier woman seated at my table. All in all an interesting time – the waitress was begging for a larger tip from the get go – she was awkward and tired – badly put together, but it is easy to forgive those who have night jobs to supplement the day job which masks as a career.

I expect to be famous any minute now – So t-shirts may soon be available.

I want to see a bull gore a toreador

I want to see a bull gore a toreador.

I only ever pray when an
ambulance goes by
other wise,
I don’t believe.

it’s madness but
why can’t it be cancer?
something nice and clean?

I hope this made you spill your tea.

– Hoc Scripsi

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July 8, 2011

I have the importing blues

by jhon baker

Trying to import the old blog without any of the funky wingdings in the posts and such I have hit a snag. Deleting all the former posts and uploading the XML doesn’t seem to be working but maybe it is that I am impatient. My artistic medium was never with the computer as a tool, a means, or an end. While I am not a luddite I am still a little lost but working it out. Fear not my lack of readership – this too will be worked out in the end.

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