Posts tagged ‘assassination’

April 30, 2010

why don’t they shoot more poets?

by jhon baker

I have normal aspirations mostly. Maybe.
Normal: not wanting to be rich just successful in my own view, as a poet/writer mostly poet though.
maybe not so normal: the extreme of that success is being assassinated for being a poet, for aligning words in such a way that we are found to be dangerous. My example would be Lorca. I admire his poetry and plays, spent a summer translating a few of the poems. I envy his death tho it is not envious.
Normal: to write about what I experience and see others experiencing.
hummmm: to have large portions of my memory erased so  I can be in a pure place with my madness and write from there. It’s the view of the world a poet has that drives him/her to write, the more that view is abstracted from the society the better the work to a point and I don’t know where that point is and given enough time all artists cross it.
these are my examples for today, all questions will be fielded after the poem.

 on 04/30/1945 the world was rid of a monster, exactly six years earlier another monster made it’s debut and has ingratiated itself into the normal consciousness.
the former being the suicide of Adolf Hitler and the latter being CBS television made it’s first broadcast at the worlds fair. I don’t mean to pick on CBS alone as they are all a conglomeration of pushers with their junk easily spread into the veins of children and adults. I almost never watch television programs or television itself anymore. I had my fill over a three year period where I could not do much more than lay on a couch and observe the box. I mean to pick on Hitler though and acknowledge that his mosterousness is incomparable to any contemporary person.

This is how I view ECT:

poetry doesn’t have to make sense to be good
poetry doesn’t have to cure social ills
poetry doesn’t have to __________________

electricity is always running through us – we just
don’t care for increasing the amperage.

what man does to man
man does not do to one self less he
be considered insane

poetry doesn’t have to comment
poetry doesn’t have to describe
poetry doesn’t have to be well written

Electric chairs can be wired badly and still
kill with efficiency.

 – Hoc Scripsi (right now, so forgive if it is poorly written or not ________)

 I had intended for this to be a different poem. Something from my back stock about poets be assassinated for their good looks but it is now going to be the above write. 

yesterday I cleaned my .38 and 30 aught 6, today I get the scope mounted and dialed in.
I load my thirty-aught-six to board the downtown train…

but that’s another poem…

April 23, 2010

selling porn over the internet

by jhon baker

I listen to sketches of Spain and think of Federico Garcia Lorca and remember how I was obsessed with both when K and I decided to get married. The album causes me to lightly weep and I am hearing it now though I am unsure that it is playing at all.
 Often there is this drive to know what Lorca was thinking when he was killed. Looking out at the sky on a moonless night, under a flood of car headlights or no light at all save the muzzle flash of the weapon that bored a hole into him and ended him. in that moment there would have been no fear as we do not fear what is actual and present, there would be no pleading or bargaining as Lorca would have realized the pointlessness of it. What were his last words? They cannot be known.

The world was more interesting before the porn was available on the internet. When you had to go to stores and into booths to replicate the kind of experience available now for free while in your captains chair. I am of course talking about variety now as home films and VHS have been around for awhile. 
These things are unrelated.
In a moment or two there will be a poem but for right now there is breathing and thinking and drinking coffee.
My son waits for me to be done so I can sit for breakfast with him.


you know how I admire
photographs taken in sunlight.

sitting outside back lit
against a screened in porch.
You have become art against
my love now and I am
thinking of daisies that once
adorned you hair,
softened by your face.

how I will always love you
tho I never loved you.

not even in photographs.

– Hoc Scripsi

This is only a sketch in itself, all thought is sketched of loose imagery tied together by patterns of language or images. this we call perception and eraser waste and graphite dust soil the windows.

April 14, 2010

John Wilkes Booth goes from famous to infamous.

by jhon baker

April 14 1865, A. Lincoln is shot while trying to enjoy a night out with Martha. Who knows if he is saddened by the death wound or relived. Booth, a famous actor in his time decides this is the opportune moment to ensure his name will be burned into the memory of all school children from there on out. His plan works decisively, and the bastard breaks his leg living his last out in agony.

On 04/14/1941 Julie Christie came into being and sustained fame in her own right or by virtue of her body in addition to her acting skills, she did not kill a president and thus we are unaware of her middle name.

Made coffee this morning while badly limping and in incredible pain. Longing for the narcotics that I’ve given up I sit down to compose this.

I’m still on so many medications that I am not sure my brain works properly.

Today is another day I will not write much if anything at all as I am taken out to the garage to focus on other things that are temporarily important but currently necessary.

there was something I was going to write here but then someone started talking and I lost the thought.

6.9 earthquake hits Western China (400 dead for starters) and once again Mother Nature makes it painfully clear that she is not too happy, but, we humans are only bound by our self importance so the significance is lost on the majority of us. A cyclone gets 85 people in India.

Listening to Nick Cave and Warren Ellis soundtracks – best modern classical style music. Warren has a great Beard and plays a violin so beautifully it forces the sociopath to cry aloud where ever they are standing.

I am afraid to stand and keep writing in fear of the pain overtaking my self and leading to the darkest of places at nine O’clock in the morning.

My body still smokes – I don’t

Have I mentioned how much I hate pain?
Have I mentioned, yet, how much I fucking hate pain?
maybe it’s that I hate fucking pain;
but regardless, my leg wants to walk away without me.
my head wants to have a temporary separation from my hip
and my ass bleeds and says “fuck ‘em if they can’t take a joke.”

– Hoc Scripsi

if you have not yet, be sure to stop by Theather Underground to check out the poem Blank Pages.
If you haven’t been by the Roadkill Zen Journal either – go there to read togethercoloured.

February 18, 2010


by jhon baker

The amount of typos contained in the last post bothers me – really highlights the need to hire someone else to do this kind of thing.
Thankfully my agent finally read this and decided to inform me in case the errors were not poetic license. They were not and have now been corrected. I will accept my thirty lashes tied to the main sail now.

I would rather be censored

I would rather be shot

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