April 23, 2010
by jhon baker
I listen to sketches of Spain and think of Federico Garcia Lorca and remember how I was obsessed with both when K and I decided to get married. The album causes me to lightly weep and I am hearing it now though I am unsure that it is playing at all.
Often there is this drive to know what Lorca was thinking when he was killed. Looking out at the sky on a moonless night, under a flood of car headlights or no light at all save the muzzle flash of the weapon that bored a hole into him and ended him. in that moment there would have been no fear as we do not fear what is actual and present, there would be no pleading or bargaining as Lorca would have realized the pointlessness of it. What were his last words? They cannot be known.
The world was more interesting before the porn was available on the internet. When you had to go to stores and into booths to replicate the kind of experience available now for free while in your captains chair. I am of course talking about variety now as home films and VHS have been around for awhile.
These things are unrelated.
In a moment or two there will be a poem but for right now there is breathing and thinking and drinking coffee.
My son waits for me to be done so I can sit for breakfast with him.
photographs
you know how I admire
photographs taken in sunlight.
sitting outside back lit
against a screened in porch.
You have become art against
my love now and I am
thinking of daisies that once
adorned you hair,
softened by your face.
how I will always love you
tho I never loved you.
not even in photographs.
– Hoc Scripsi
This is only a sketch in itself, all thought is sketched of loose imagery tied together by patterns of language or images. this we call perception and eraser waste and graphite dust soil the windows.
Tell your friends and lovers
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April 22, 2010
by jhon baker
it is unfortunate that there will now be a lot of poetry about volcanoes and planes traversing the ash.
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April 22, 2010
by jhon baker
this is/this was
here, this is/ this was
the scene of our love
left only now to misshapen sheets
and my hands on your hands
hands of a body
your body
eyes of windows immensity
after evenings hour
your moonlit being
here, this is/ this was
the scene of our love
and configuration of sleeping bodies
head to head
on cased feather pillows
dreamt singing voices
of your gravity
after midnights hour
and my obeisant being
this is
this was
the scene of
our love
now a windowless immensity
after mornings hour
and your vanished being
– hoc scripsi
at this time I am working on three long poems and a short one. The shorty is completed I believe (I’ll check on it in a week or so and probably hate it) but the longer ones need more attention. After that they are off to the New Yorker, then Atlantic and Harper’s to get rejected – after that maybe the better journals where the will have a chance. I mention all of this only because I have no prose today other than this. I am devoting my energies to these poems and picking up my new pistol today – Illinois has a 3 day waiting period.
The other day I was called a Buddhist with bullets and it is the first time I enjoyed such a thing as this. It’s accurate so it’s fun.
om
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April 21, 2010
by jhon baker
As a child I would often look up to the outlaw or the seeming enemy. It was for his bravery, daring, disgust with the law creator. Today in 1918 one of my earliest and most beloved heroes was killed by the allied forces, the name of the pilot who shot him down escapes me now but my hero is/was Manfred Von Richthofen, the bloody Red Baron. I don’t think it’s that odd or anything, there are many boys who would want to be looked up to like that but one of the things I often would admire was that he was killed. Later in life I would liken him to Billy the Kid (who fought not for country) and Federico Garcia Lorca (killed for being a poet). As noted before many of my heroes kill themselves while some die of old age. What I didn’t mention was that there are a lot who are murdered for being who they were.When greatness is recognized there is no recognition of Country. Even the British buried him with Military Honors as he was deserving. I also admit that I would not like to see the reign of hell he would have brought if he lived, but death doesn’t allow the extraordinary to be such for too long, death or worse shuts the door suddenly.
going into war and perishing in it is not that different from suicide really, it is only easier to connect to the reason the person has died. The Red Baron flew in the face of his enemy and taunted them, baited death until it arrived. This is not the action of a stable brain.
POEM
S. Michigan Ave. & 43rd
or thereabout.
Standing south corner
looking up, with
nothing particular in mind.
– Hoc Scripsi
listening to Arcangelo Corelli and I am thinking that most of my out put lately has been written to his music or silence. Such Perfect Baroque.
my hands are abused badly. Cuts, scrapes and dry cracking. I can’t remember to use any kind of lotion unless I see it staring at me from the corner or counter. it hurts to type a little on this slim apple keyboard and they are not looking giddily with anticipation at moving over to the Selectric III later. The doctor tells me to wash my hands less than I do but they feel like they have a coating, an extra skin of grime so that my fingers don’t want to touch each other or anything else for that matter. Right now they sting to wash but no matter I will distract myself suddenly and be done with it.
This is also how to learn to fly according to the late Douglas Adams. Throw yourself at the ground and at the last moment – become distracted. I’ve tried this with no success. I would imagine that it would be easier to accomplish whilst heavily drinking but then I also think it would be less than intelligent to operate yourself while intoxicated while flying around as it opens worlds of things that you can now bump into.
Don’t forget Literary Tonic.
Tell your friends and lovers
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