words of a people aligned in their perfect order
I’ve lowered my standards,
the problem might be that I had them in the first place.
you easily forget when you were at your best
in endless pursuit to surmount each previous work
and your output dwindles until you are
only writing fifty poems a year
which I guess is fine
though it is easier to say more if so inclined
and uninhibited
by meaningless constraints and various medications.
but don’t worry,
I’m still on the medications.
– Hoc Scripsi
life yer life – love yer wife
I wonder if I will ever stop wanting to drink, smoke, take drugs.
I wonder if I will ever want to stop drinking coffee, writing, masturbating, playing with Legos, loving legal voyeurism, among various other bad or dangerous things.
I don’t wonder these things too much because if I allow myself to live in the future I can see that the day will pass when these are not options but memories that I will continue to scribble about.
I look forward to being a dirty old man.
I look backward at being a dirty young man.
Right now is the middle. between two dirty states of being.
my thoughts are often unwilled intrusions, and I don’t act on most of them.
which is good because when I obsess, I obsess with the best of them.
this is nothing new and right now I sit in a coffee shop on my laptop like some asshole with a “for here” mug half filled with black coffee. The music is mostly good and right now plays something I’m not immediately familiar with but it sounds like seventies Cat Stevens as sung by Jack Johnson while drinking. But that ends and plays something else and this I don’t care for.
I wait for the next song and step into the frigid outside to imbibe in a long nurtured vice.
I make no resolutions, live life like yesterday but today and tomorrow.
Staring at this screen for the last ten minutes and now my coffee is cold and all I really want is a cigarette.
Thankfully I haven’t quit.
I have loved
now I love
I shall lie betwixt her breasts
in the mood merriment of playful jazz
lust or longing, a wandering
a melancholy jest.
the star of Venus of Heaven
the tragedy of Euridice
we dance the dance of Polyhumnia
and write the words of Callopie.
we are like children
under cover of moon’s somber reflections
memories vouchsafed lying
on night’s dewy grasses.
– Hoc Scripsi
the platitudes of willful resemblance 