January 18, 2011
by jhon baker
2am – corner diner and closing the joint.
Mark sat up slowly, eyes closed, to sip off his coffee. Once erect he opens his eyes, parted slightly, and sips while breathing through his nose and mouth, for the cooling effect.
“Is there anything on your mind, darling?” he asks
Janie shrugs her shoulders and looks off to her left. Her right hand firmly gripping her mug, a cigarette burning, ignored, in the ashtray.
Mark slides back down to prone in the booth seat. Breathing a heavy sigh as he mentally notes,
‘well, then it’s nothing’.
It’s been a long day and tomorrow is going to start with a hell of a hangover.
– Hoc Scripsi
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November 17, 2010
by jhon baker
it had been seven hours since the moment of clarity and now we questioned it entirely. a moment of obscurity – and still it had been seven hours since.
I loaded my gun and walked amiably toward the back bedroom where the typewriter was kept and once entered sat down to feel out a confession of sorts but only to be read by my god or therapist. some words crashed out effortlessly while others necessated manual extraction via a syringe into fingertips.
the last time we were here my ulnar nerve was nicked and the sensation fled out of one and a half fingers.
now we allowed it to escape though minute burning forced our eyes to watch and our brain to repudiate its association.
here, the faces of clocks tell no hour. hands strength to point forced into submission by gears and precise Japanese clockwork.
and faces painted adorn walls never lit.
image found at Magpie tales prompt #41.
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July 1, 2010
by jhon baker
standing next an old jukebox, this Fonzi-lite motorcycle thug secretly writes poetry and wonders quietly if that makes him a homosexual. He’s from a small town where the local library has more gun magazines than books of poetry. he wantonly fucks every waitress but only gives poetry to the sheriff’s wife whose smooth flank and hard belly keeps him coming back.
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the platitudes of willful resemblance 