words of a people aligned in their perfect order
I just submitted to 48 hour magazine. An interesting quest into the caves of putting out a full and complete magazine in forty-eight hours.
I pray for my inclusion and yours if you try to be included.
check it out – regardless of the outcome of my involvement I will post a link to it when said issue is out.
A storm started last night around 2 am, or so that is around when it woke me up, only temporarily as I sleep well to the white noise of hard rain. It continues in earnest now threatening to wet our hair and jackets as we begin our day of juvenile doctor appointment, ophthalmologist appointments, various other things planned for me by wife, hopefully to get lunch at my favorite family restaurant which I haven’t been to much since we moved away from it, there is a little pistol that I have to pick up purchased 67 hours ago, or thereabout.
This is life, not always exciting, not boring – just is and it keeps going for now.
luckily.
I imagine dozens of winged seraphs standing erect, flanking me as I am a poet and necessary.
my history of surviving deathly situations may well prove this out.
untitled
my breath stinks
my armpits smell
my stomach aches
I am not the man I thought I was
better to be dead
then have to spend a
lifetime dying. but
I’d be awkward as anyone
else in anyother life
so there is only
this and
with all,
it perseveres.
I cannot wash the
stain of maleness
off my clothes
I am not the man I ought to have been
only recently realizing
that I have to obliterate all
that should not be known
or read, less it be known
and read.
and still,
my breath stinks,
my armpits smell.
my stomach aches.
– Hoc Scripsi
wanting to lie together till night falls asunder
me reading HOWL and you
reading me.
– Hoc Scripsi
Chewing the skin off my lower lip
does not help the poetry arrive
or give me a way in.
I have been unable to find out what the cows, pigs and chickens were named before they were led to slaughter. In light of this I have decided to start naming all of the meat that comes into the house as a matter of honest and simplicity. Simplicity in that trying to chase down somethings name is impossible and honesty in that I don’t want to look at something and become disconnected to what it was. A steak was a cow, bacon was a pig and eggs could have been chickens and most broths were chickens.
the overall task is a difficult one in coming up with different names all the time and then not sharing with those around me – not many people want to know they are eating Blue Betty who was raised for our consumption but would have rather been somewhere else.
I wonder if cows ever would thank Dr. Temple Grandin or curse her – I think they ought to be thankful as their death is made more humane and they were going to die regardless of her ingeniousness. Did Blue Betty (who is not tonight’s or last night’s dinner but will be in two days) ever think to herself, Wow, I’m not freaking out on my way to perish for the greater weight gain of America and for this I have Dr. Gradin to thank. My death has been made more pleasant. Why not? As a person I know I would be grateful to whomever could make my death more acceptable and calm – of course this is not true as I want to be assassinated – but, then again, so are the cows.
Loving Cows and eating them does not make me a hypocrite.
practice non-violence and own several guns. this does not make me a hypocrite.
have no qualms with taking medication to help me be a better buddhist.
I miss my chaotic mind and still take the meds. this does not make me a hypocrite.
writing poetry and rarely picking up a thesaurus in revision does not make me a hypocrite.
it would be satisfying to me if the packaging always had a name on it.
When I eat in Chinese restaurants I will often name the Kung-Pow
cinnamon or fluffy.
– Hoc Scripsi
