words of a people aligned in their perfect order
As where new things happen, old things stop happening.
I got nothing.
a drum set without a spur, a poem without a line or two, a cold cup of coffee, a bathroom light fixture with a blown ballast.
but I’ve slept – yesterday/last night I slept great. this is an abnormal occurrence, an anomaly in an otherwise sleepless life.
Why do I look at my wife firstly every morning and often at night while I am awake and she is sleeping?
Because she is beautiful and I love beauty.
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Enjoying hot coffee in this terrible heat and there is no inspiration except for this heat which, like rain, I nearly refuse to write about. Lately there have been a lot of really wonderful comments and I would like to thank you and tell you how humbled I am by them.
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I’ve decided that my post today would be mildly erratic.
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My most real and available friends are all ones I’ve met through this internet thingy. Also, it is night while I read your post and it is so muggy outside while I am trying to smoke that my glasses fog, my computer is wetting with condensation and my ukulele is warping out of tune.
(that was written two nights ago)
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in 2010 I wrote a lot about death as last year there was death experienced.
such as
life ends
life ends abruptly.
the shadow ceases.
loss is registered but
life goes on,
indelicately as it
must.
– Hoc Scripsi
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she’s allergic to the blue iris I always send to her on her birthday.
I slept badly and then we we made love – after I slept until 11:40 and an hour later haven’t moved from my cigarette and empty coffee cup.
at two in the morning my body was creeping out of my skin revealing a man within, the eviction notice again goes without serious note.
every day I have a responsibility to wake and breathe, I’ve done so unfailingly.
every cay I have a responsibility to write the most beautiful poems, something revealing, I’ve done so failingly.
– Hoc Scripsi
saw this image on a friends blog and it immediately struck me as something I should write about.
early childhood/ late summer life
found you
standing backyard, hiding from
the boys teasing your name
around the corner.
the image of Plath or Sexton,
and sometime
dancer.
but here is what I want from you:
follow though
burn their eyes out,
kick their balls so hard they’ll think of you
fifty years later.
then go
go
go
be someones little girl again
and wait for branches to untie leaves
and wither in fall
before you stop dancing.
– Hoc Scripsi
the platitudes of willful resemblance 