and I smacked that fucker into a mug of coffee.
April 22, 2014
was trying to write today…
but nothing came out. I stared at the blank piece of paper and listened to the new Eels album instead.
April 18, 2014
poem
the obvious end
death
and the mystery of it.
love is a chemical thing,
there is only mystery for the uninformed.
but
still I love
and soon will die;
the poetry of death is inexhaustible.
the poetry of flowers and birds is equally inexhaustible.
and when it rains everyone writes poetry about the rains.
but
we still think of a rising sun
a setting sun
in ignorance that it is the earth
that rotates on an invisible axis.
that we are always in motion,
balancing with the flat of out feet,
sometimes on our knees.
– Hoc Scripsi
April 16, 2014
late night posting
Lying in bed and finding typing difficult to do with any sense of rhythm.
I have Clifford Brown queued up on the iPod and Dawkins as my nighttime reading.
I type now, in the dark, by touch alone.
Medications have been taken and callouses removed, Ruger LC9 on the nightstand – I am naked ready for action.
My nails are long and the moon, nearly full, is no longer blood, calling for the end of times.
I rest easy – thinking long thoughts about David Ignatow, Russia, and the wars in general. I am not a purveyor of the selfie or silly quizzes though I take them out of boredom. I am heavy bored because I lack inner resources. Thank you John Berryman.
My wife wears too many clothes.
the platitudes of willful resemblance 