August 5, 2015

a monster enters my cell

by jhon baker

and I recognize myself from photographs strewn across the internet and placed among my parents things.

the black notebooks sit unused in pockets of jean jackets with Mont Blanc pens attached.

stop world consciousness existed before the medications and stability ruined the mirror image of perplexion.

an ant crawls joyfully on the lattice work of wrought iron patio furniture careful not to upset the balance.

and the dead birds come in droves.

parallels of superable considerations and a fly crawls across the rim of a coffee cup, awake and staggeringly beautiful.

they pray from both ends.

journaling thoughts later for storage into a vat of nothingness and I toughen up.

bleeding hearts are broken by mean looks and stern words spoken abruptly.

I kick the dirt under my walking boots and wonder how many creatures I’ve killed in similar fashion.

fresh page unshaven and unwritten, strands of a broken spine stumble all pencils in the margin.

sado-masochist with aim only for his own conditions tries coke for the first time. gets bitten.

shameful secret is out and we cannot control individual reactions to fake legs and prosthetic fingers.

a hallowed shell – a spent cartridge is still illegal in the right company.

 

August 4, 2015

enter title here

by jhon baker

morning when the slow malaise creeps in. morning when the pain rings true. morning when the noise turns on. morning when the bitter pill is swallowed. morning when the alarms sound that it is the first Tuesday. morning when air brakes are checked and wind is blown. morning when garbage men/women make their rounds collecting our debris and the cast-offs of a rich life. morning when I pretend to understand you. morning when I don’t understand anything. morning when bombs are dropped, lives are lost and America’s most wanted are captured. The warrant always arrives in the morning. morning when the phone rings and I have to take action. morning when the birds get their breakfast and I eat cheerios with blueberries. stab it in the arm with a number two pencil.

the expression changes.

I’m acclimating to this change of lifestyle rather well and have not gone out to brazenly alter my blood sugars/insulin balance/imbalance.

the interviewer brings up black socks and polish-able shoes twice and I tell him that my socks don’t match. I’ve also already told him that I want his job and that I didn’t think it would be that difficult to obtain. but still the interview goes well and I plan on turning down the position if and when it is offered.

I drink coffee with abandon and no care for the lining of my stomach. the phone rings twice in the morning and I wonder where I’ve gone wrong.

 

August 1, 2015

I guess it’s a matter of sensation

by jhon baker

birds evening song

boys weed in the garden

making way for more weeds to grow and insist

 

cicadas sound

make love, make love

here I am, waiting out whatever

 

metal skewers don’t require a soaking

and I love your

face

 

smooth smooth smooth

a moment of several stages

the first one

 

hurts hurts strange

and a means of communication

I wave my hands

 

sidelong and erect

standing to the left of the finished masterpiece

tearing apart

 

and not taking it

anymore

we’re not taking it anymore

 

– Hoc Scripsi

 

July 28, 2015

So Here I Am

by jhon baker

I am a man of chronic conditions

and if you bless me I’ll say thanks

but that’s all

 

no one renders the image well

and while the coffee is hot

the outside is almost hotter

 

and I eat a pinkish apple

drink bottled water

and stare at your walls

 

sugarless scenarios

contemplating my next tattoo

I am a spiritual guide

 

wearing a gun and a leatherman

ready for anything

I’m ready for you

 

– Hoc Scripsi

July 28, 2015

Dear Judas,

by jhon baker

1.

 

I cannot believe in God

for all the ill his world produces;

for all the memory of your embattled figure.

aren’t we all the sons of man?

the daughters?

aren’t we all the saints of tomorrow?

yesterdays?

dear Judas,

I weep weep at thoughts of you.

 

2.

 

holy holy

I suppose I call out for you

(your tragic figure)

feet playing the edge of a precipice

knowing not whither to fall

and be damned

 

speak for me

(holy holy)

Adonoi for sought blessings

for finding your body to love

speak for me

holy holy – holy holy

 

dear Judas,

child, saint

you are venerated in my heart

I feel you

listening now for words

from your voice

 

I pray to you

seek you out in hymn –

which star are you?

speak for me,

our holy blessings and names

our holy actions and love

 

 

 

3.

 

dear Judas,

where can I find you?

I look in back alleys

search the graveyards

stop in cafes

along busy streets

and I cannot find you

 

the air is desiccated

sun burnt skin flakes

and peels

as I strive in the daylight

looking for you

in the faces of dirty children

with uncombed hair

I seek you out

among the poor

and tax collectors

among the rich

and forgotten

 

dear Judas,

I write to you now

to understand

not of your purported betrayal

or that last kiss

wherein you created

Christianity

to understand

the end

the dark night of your soul

I listen among the birds

sitting under trees

for your final declaration

the last act of a hanged man

misunderstood for two thousand years

 

dear Judas,

you are the first

martyred

forgotten

hanged from the devil’s tree

where no bird sang but wept

where stone and arrow

met your body and mind

your last walk holy

 

dear Judas,

holy Judas

martyred Judas

I pray for you

call out to you

(your tragic figure)

I weep weep at thoughts of you

 

dear Judas,

sing for me

holy holy

your soul scarred

and sacred

your body left and

forgotten

that strength of a thousand thousand men

the courage of many more

tracing a line round your heart

broken now

broken for all time

 

– Hoc Scripsi

 

 

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