That is all.
February 2, 2014
February the second
I am captivated by my own world and have nothing to really say about it. There are so many typos in the sentence that this one is replacing that I’m not bothering with the original. My coffee needs a filler and I am waiting for my turn to practice my instrument. My son first practices his as his future involves these things and only my past does. I have written a single poem this year and last year by this time I was up to around 28 or so.
I am staring at this black piece of paper
with four poems waiting to be written;
drinking coffee but
wonting for something else entirely.
my ears are dirty with grime
and later I’ll shower.
right now I am not adjacent to godliness
but God doesn’t drink coffee
or smoke endless cigarettes turning on the next line.
– Hoc Scripsi
I am waiting for something to say that I haven’t already said better for fear of repeating myself but maybe that it all I need to do – repeat myself better or worse and watch trains rumble by while I drink fresher coffee served by baristas that long to do something different – even if it as meaningless as what they perceive they do now. It’s palpable. the wont.
I am trying to quit but running out now to smoke another instead of type type type bang bang bang on the MacBook with the loose key. It is nearing time for a new or newer laptop and I cannot decide if laptop or tablet or nothing at all and force myself to travel down to my office where the desktop is and write there – adjacent to the IBM Selectric III and Buddha.
December 3, 2013
some poems
some poems take years to write
some only minutes
every other poem is in-between
and none so far has taken more.
like Bukowski, Williams, O’Hara
I am a writer of poems
short poems
long poems
most a few in-between
like all creatives I am
disgracefully unreliable in action
chasing down the inspirations
with a stick in one hand
a pen in the other
months of missing my prey
and weeks of eating well
and growing fat
but I write on this IBM Selectric III
and drink coffee like it was religion
no longer getting drunk or drugging
my days away
and slipping into the nightgown of poetry.
now they all come fully dressed
with ten fingers typing
furiously in fits and starts
mostly done during the day.
I am nostalgia interrupted
a willful resemblance of another time
before my iMac and laptop dominated
my final drafts and submissions
email rejections or acceptances
I haven’t stamped an SASE in years
or walked to the mailbox hopeful or dreadful
waiting to throw away another poem
such as this.
– Hoc Scripsi
July 20, 2013
Sitting
Waiting at the music school my son attends for him to finish an hour and a half of lessons. There is nothing to do except scan Facebook, Twitter, and search around for news of the coming apocalypse (there is one isn’t there? There is always one coming down the pipe.). But, the coffee never lasts long enough and there isn’t entertainment going on in the waiting area of the school for any length of time – though this time I get to restring a guitar and make an unintentional dollar.
As noted above – I’m on twitter now – I am officially a twit or one who twits or whatever. Follow me or not – @JhonZBaker – I’ll not be offended if you do not or cannot or will not.
I refuse to be offended personally by anything – because no one fucking cares.
and outside it’s storming
temporary black out
and the keys on this machine hesitate
and stop momentarily.
my heart jumps as I am in the middle of a poem
and will be left sitting in the dark
with only drink and silence
and no poem
but the lights flutter and return
and the machine hums again
scenting the room with ozone
it’s January in Chicago
and raining, with intermittent thunder
and lightening keeping the cats awake
the platitudes of willful resemblance 