words of a people aligned in their perfect order
Russian ballet
pit bulls and Mongols m.c.
my friend prefers Czech pussy
and I drink my coffee black
callipygian pose
drunk underwater
amative alliterative belletrists
a certain dissatisfaction
you don’t know anymore
any more, anymore
you don’t know
anymore
– Hoc Scripsi
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.
but the coffee is running low and I’ve a sandbox to finish building.
I need to start drinking iced coffee or maybe iced tea. I’m the only one I know that really doesn’t care for iced tea and I absolutely cannot stand iced coffee. iced soy chai – now your talking but why go out and spend five bucks just to sit outside and fuck around on the laptop. It is never too hot to enjoy the home brew – it is never too cold to eat a bowl of ice cream, and all movies watch better with popcorn.
Today’s poem is a few years old and has been published twice – once in Roadkill zen Journal and again in my book, hands on the hips (available from Amazon or signed if you order through the buttons in the upper right hand corner), I have put it up because RKzJ has closed their site and it is no longer available there – this is the bad thing about internet publication, it creates no history. I think I should take screen shots where my poems appear on this world wide web just to have the history for my self – kept in a box at the bottom of a closet.
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the platitudes of willful resemblance 