September 10, 2011

we are dramatic by design, confused by normalcy – from a conversaton with MC

by jhon baker

What some poem said in 31

 

I wish it was cancer, simple – to the point and either death or cure would deliver me without question.

 

I wish I could offer you that radiance, that moment.

what some poem wrote in 31.

 

the projectionist asleep

aisles full of faces, a thousand faces

and sorrowed malaise

the colors saturated

the film jumpy

like an old film with the tracking off

muffled vocal intonation

and a sharp disjoint from yesterday morning

where I sat with coffee and dunhill internationals

and an aspect of understanding

– Hoc Scripsi

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September 8, 2011

and from another conversation entirely…

by jhon baker

I have always said that men should keep their shirts on while in public, almost no matter how they look but some consciousness about ones body goes a long way. I have countered this with women ought to go round shirtless more often as it isn’t nearly as offensive to the eyes but quite the opposite, the woman has a body beautiful in all shapes and the world would be a far lovelier place should it be unencumbered from the strictures of modern ugly morality.

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September 6, 2011

my own private Elgin, Illinois

by jhon baker

 

the sun is setting now and the leaves aren’t still but luminous, vivid greens and some reds.

verdant splendor of intense color shaded by a myriad of others and backed by intense whites and pinks of gravel driveway.

All images blur and skip frame to frame like an old 8mm.

 

2. (and then again)

all the colors become brilliant and to know what it means.

I gave god the better odds on this one.

loaded a single cartridge into a six-wheel and spun.

my own private Elgin, Illinois,

images blur and frame skip to slow

an old 8mm film

alighting the spirits of

Jack Daniels and Johnnie Walker

an unfinished life

and the poetry of John Berryman.

 

– Hoc Scripsi

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September 5, 2011

215643 –

by jhon baker

Trying my hardest today to not bellow and shout, scream at everyone who breathes in my presence. The fault is entirely mine, or at least it is the fault of an unknown source fucking up my tolerance level for people, things, coffee and apt consideration.

Last night – or rather this morning between six and nine thirty I slept. The first real sleep in days not driven by highly charged emotional states and nightmares. and at the moment my wrist is bleeding.

I didn’t harm myself if that is the conclusion the reader has leapt to.

a stab into the wrist from a light construction project in the destruction phase. Well, it is meant to be a light construction/room rehab project but the further I am getting into it the more I am realizing that it is going to need and today I am not up to the task of contemplating how best to accomplish the goal.

what I need is a four in the afternoon nap, some heavy sedation and a beer or bottle of Yukon Jack.

my problems are petty and the coffee is warm.

I can’t write a poem in this mood, flashing downward in a silent movie circa 1928 train wreck and bugs bunny taunting the shotgun in manic high.

squirrels wear a fur coat made of raccoon hide.

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