another stroke and I wish for him that his pain would end. I love this man that gave his daughter to me and her pain is my pain – his pain is our pain.
this is all I have to say for now.
July 29, 2010
Sunflowers
Van Gogh, 120 years dead by his own quarrel with life lost.
Recently I was at the Chicago Art Institute and stood in front of The Bedroom – breaking tears as he is the only painter that can make me weep with a stroke from his brush. His genius and madness is evident on every square centimeter of canvass.
I have never seen his final painting, Wheat Field with Crows, and wish to stand long in sight of it, I am convinced that I will understand when it the presence of this masterwork. A good reason to visit Amsterdam.
it’s Thursday
woke up this morning and it was pouring rain, welcoming spring I slept in
late late. I had dreams that although I was married with a boy and my age,
I was naked in High School, but in dream I really didn’t care.
My older brother hit me in the head with a golf club,
while I was six, according to my mother,
broke open my skull,
according to the golf club.
Now I blame him for everything. like the instability.
– Hoc Scripsi
March 29, 2010
strange day already – @ 8:23 AM
Strange day already.
Brothers birthday and an old friends.
Happy birthday.
I realize that I am hitting enter after full sentences and not caring.
Doctors today and such.
about to hop in the shower and go out to Hampshire Napa with my son.
today may contain no other poetry than what follows here…
X8mX
I’m happy to say that
I haven’t heard from you in awhile.
I guess… how are you?
what you been doing,
are you working.
how is the family if you
have one.
is that a new car.
did you ever solve that
crossword.
is your whoever still ailing,
or has the obligatory disease
killed them off yet.
is your day to day in
good griping order…
and whatever other questions
that I have accidentally left off
should now be answered in
whatever order you like.
me? I am roughly the same
and still disinterested
in this general conversation.
– I wrote this.
March 22, 2010
Wilmington, North Carolina
Morning, having slept in, sort of. I had a hard time sleeping after driving nearly 500 miles yesterday, this would not have been a problem years ago but age, abuse to body (internal), accidents resulting in abuse to body (external), and now chronic pain in leg from hip to large toe make even sitting painful. Today’s poem is about what landed me here, sort of.
my extended family has embraced Kara so beautifully that I nearly teared. I am so glad that we made this trip, I am so glad that we can embrace once more. Tonight we dine with my second cousins and may see my Great Aunt Kate again but she has had a procedure today for her own pain that will prevent us from being together. Maybe.
Goethe died today in 1832. It is because of Goethe that I journal. It is because of a friend of mine that I do so publicly, sort of publicly. This is meant for popular consumption and my other journal is only meant for similar consumption after my untimely death, whenever that may be.
THE MOTORCYCLE
the motorcycle had been
insured, paid for and
was now just a pile of
bolts, chrome and accessories
somewhere in
some fenced off yard
where pit bulls bent
to lick their balls and
longed for tastes of
human flesh. my pile of
bolts, chrome and
accessories
was more well guarded
now then ever.
– I wrote this
the platitudes of willful resemblance 