Posts tagged ‘Guns’

January 6, 2016

MOLON LABE

by jhon baker

here we are at two in the morning

2.16 to be precise

and sleep is in the past and far from me now

I eat Reality Sandwiches

and drink coffee, black, out from a chipped mug

 

I seem to be the target of spam lately

and with this I admit to the digital age

fully with handheld computers

and online dictionaries and

the classic writers thesaurus

 

and I read Bartlett’s book of anecdotes

to substitute for any actual experience

which is a lie

though I sleep away in relative safety

next to a loaded revolver

 

MOLON LABE – out from my cold dead hands

and of course I speak of poetry

long looks and bedroom post-coital whispers

it is not enough that the sun should rise

in a few hours but that the moon is full

 

 

– Hoc Scripsi

August 15, 2015

Time won’t let me go

by jhon baker

August 15th – 11:33 prime meridian

time won’t let me go.

memories don’t fade fast enough for some people.

the world is so difficult to give up and I’ve a fully loaded six shooter

shooting .410 bore shotgun shells next to me as I write this.

I’m freshly cleaned and glistening with cleanliness.

 

I am at the right hand of god prepared for revolution;

my nails are clean as I’ve cleaned them also.

 

days go by like cars on a highway and I don’t know what to do with them,

I hide in my home with too many rooms unused and too much carpeting to vacuum.

catatonia,

and I order toast with marmalade.

August 5, 2015

a monster enters my cell

by jhon baker

and I recognize myself from photographs strewn across the internet and placed among my parents things.

the black notebooks sit unused in pockets of jean jackets with Mont Blanc pens attached.

stop world consciousness existed before the medications and stability ruined the mirror image of perplexion.

an ant crawls joyfully on the lattice work of wrought iron patio furniture careful not to upset the balance.

and the dead birds come in droves.

parallels of superable considerations and a fly crawls across the rim of a coffee cup, awake and staggeringly beautiful.

they pray from both ends.

journaling thoughts later for storage into a vat of nothingness and I toughen up.

bleeding hearts are broken by mean looks and stern words spoken abruptly.

I kick the dirt under my walking boots and wonder how many creatures I’ve killed in similar fashion.

fresh page unshaven and unwritten, strands of a broken spine stumble all pencils in the margin.

sado-masochist with aim only for his own conditions tries coke for the first time. gets bitten.

shameful secret is out and we cannot control individual reactions to fake legs and prosthetic fingers.

a hallowed shell – a spent cartridge is still illegal in the right company.

 

April 16, 2014

late night posting

by jhon baker

Lying in bed and finding typing difficult to do with any sense of rhythm.

I have Clifford Brown queued up on the iPod and Dawkins as my nighttime reading.

I type now, in the dark, by touch alone.

Medications have been taken and callouses removed, Ruger LC9 on the nightstand – I am naked ready for action.

My nails are long and the moon, nearly full, is no longer blood, calling for the end of times.

I rest easy – thinking long thoughts about David Ignatow, Russia, and the wars in general.  I am not a purveyor of the selfie or silly quizzes though I take them out of boredom. I am heavy bored because I lack inner resources. Thank you John Berryman.

My wife wears too many clothes.