May 3, 2010

mondaymorningnotenoughcoffee yetandthecomputerisbroken

by jhon baker

Just a note this morning as I must run out to bring the iMac to the doctor and I have to leave in about fifteen minutes.
Tainted Love Poems has kindly appointed me an Officer Poet in their FB organization. now I have Officer Poet and the Buddha with Bullets as monikers. I like them both as my appointed titles in the wider world of the internet.
I wish I had more to say this morning and that there isn’t more is okay.
My tiredness (each blink lasts several seconds) withstanding this mornings strong elixer regardless of the fact that I have to leave in about fifteen minutes.

 These are not-haiku

1
stepping over fallen leaves
and dismantled watches
making sure not to stumble

2
night and day
     arrive then depart
each casually

3
softened voices,
      wind travels easily  
through old trees

 – Hoc Scripsi

Later may grant me more to say. Later may have the main computer repaired without erasing the volume structure. Later may contain the multitudes of universe. Later is time ad infinitum. I always know that later will have poetry in it if I can only find a way in.

Later        Later        Later       Later       Later       Later

UPDATE on the main computer and the volume structure. Total failure and fatal errors… a new hard drive is in order. Luckily I have everything backed up on an external hard drive, luckily this went correct or mostly correct today.

I didn’t know that later I was going to have to shoot a dying animal. I didn’t know that later would contain these multitudes.
Later still my water will be shut off for 12 hours, later I will be applying for a job after not working for almost 4 years. It’s part time and will help pay for my obsessions – no obsessions and no job, how else am I suppose to stay engaged?

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May 2, 2010

Sunday

by jhon baker

Listening to Lawrence Ferlinghetti and sitting in my writing room, not writing at all until now. No ideas but this is no excuse as all one needs to do is start with anything.
deciding to start with a post here and just see what happens next, which will probably be nothing as dinner is soon and listening to another poet never inspired me to create my own – only recreate theirs which is not an option.
could/should put on Sibelius  – the tone poems and then see what comes crawling to the surface for cleaning and consideration. But I am listening to “I am waiting” and that is what I am now doing. L.F. having far too much influence on me at the moment tho I cannot be brought to shut it off. there are only about 14 minutes left of the album and now I am waiting for it to end but is waiting what should be done, is waiting now only a thought deterrent while waiting for the medications to kick in.

A Coney Island of the Mind is like a nuclear deterrent of the creative mind.

here is a previously blogged poem but it is Sunday and I can feel good about this.

the platitudes of willful resemblances

some things have a harder time changing than others.
sleep comes hard,
now we recognize,
meds and allergy pills. a
little beer and hopefully soon to sleep
and dream along the platitudes
of willful resemblances.

 – Hoc Scripsi

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May 1, 2010

the wife

by jhon baker

Today is our ten year anniversary, so today is hers.

THE WIFE

it’s great, she
doesn’t ask me to help
clean more than pick up after
myself, or ask that my beard
be trimmed all that often.

she buys beer when I want it
and makes the coffee when it is
empty.

cooks, washes the
dishes, and makes sure that the
boy gets bathed often enough
and that he eats enough.

intelligent and reads a lot
so is easy to talk to and
we make love or laugh often
and sometimes there are tears
or both together.

I almost always have clean clothes
and she makes sure that
I buy new ones fairly often so
I  don’t look like a writer, or
a vagrant or a jazz musician;
which I am to varying degrees,
all three.

but none so successfully that
I can make the living at it.

           I
ask her why she does these things
with only the occasional complaint
(usually when she thinks I am
critical of her), and she says
that she loves me.

I believe her tho she never
believes that I am not critical
of her.
I am critical of
everyone else, even the self,
she is all that is close enough to perfect
that I don’t mind the headaches.

 – Hoc Scripsi

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April 30, 2010

why don’t they shoot more poets?

by jhon baker

I have normal aspirations mostly. Maybe.
Normal: not wanting to be rich just successful in my own view, as a poet/writer mostly poet though.
maybe not so normal: the extreme of that success is being assassinated for being a poet, for aligning words in such a way that we are found to be dangerous. My example would be Lorca. I admire his poetry and plays, spent a summer translating a few of the poems. I envy his death tho it is not envious.
Normal: to write about what I experience and see others experiencing.
hummmm: to have large portions of my memory erased so  I can be in a pure place with my madness and write from there. It’s the view of the world a poet has that drives him/her to write, the more that view is abstracted from the society the better the work to a point and I don’t know where that point is and given enough time all artists cross it.
these are my examples for today, all questions will be fielded after the poem.

 on 04/30/1945 the world was rid of a monster, exactly six years earlier another monster made it’s debut and has ingratiated itself into the normal consciousness.
the former being the suicide of Adolf Hitler and the latter being CBS television made it’s first broadcast at the worlds fair. I don’t mean to pick on CBS alone as they are all a conglomeration of pushers with their junk easily spread into the veins of children and adults. I almost never watch television programs or television itself anymore. I had my fill over a three year period where I could not do much more than lay on a couch and observe the box. I mean to pick on Hitler though and acknowledge that his mosterousness is incomparable to any contemporary person.

This is how I view ECT:

poetry doesn’t have to make sense to be good
poetry doesn’t have to cure social ills
poetry doesn’t have to __________________

electricity is always running through us – we just
don’t care for increasing the amperage.

what man does to man
man does not do to one self less he
be considered insane

poetry doesn’t have to comment
poetry doesn’t have to describe
poetry doesn’t have to be well written

Electric chairs can be wired badly and still
kill with efficiency.

 – Hoc Scripsi (right now, so forgive if it is poorly written or not ________)

 I had intended for this to be a different poem. Something from my back stock about poets be assassinated for their good looks but it is now going to be the above write. 

yesterday I cleaned my .38 and 30 aught 6, today I get the scope mounted and dialed in.
I load my thirty-aught-six to board the downtown train…


but that’s another poem…

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