There is little I want to write. That is a lie. There is a lot I want to write with no ideas of where to start. Looking for the in and cross wire of the brain athwart the limbic inhibitors, the shorted fuse of creation.
once this happened:
while at work
in the backroom
I heard the opening air of Nina Simone
singing ‘Lilac Wine’ and fell in love.
I wept openly listening and made record of singer and song.
going out that night I bought her catalog
and weep still every time I hear her voice.
this is unrelated:
My throat blisters from the burned soy in four shots of espresso.
I write the best when I am clear minded and mood stable.
I am having an off day, if I were more able I would spend the day in bed and slumber it away but cannot.
but that was the other day and this is a different odd day where nothing of much import is happening.
But here is a poem.
tenuous best
three thirty comes on too fast
echoing distant
distant heard
the world the way it is
tenuous best
mark of a truth
scorned, proffered
alone in a room
and you think Allen Ginsberg had it tough
writing, holy beard hanging down
poems about cock, assholes
poems about plutonium bombs
at least Jeffers offered his Judas
who suffered, agon
meant to be played out, on stage
offering to the thousands.
– Hoc Scripsi
the platitudes of willful resemblance 