Posts tagged ‘medications’

June 15, 2011

four fingers

by jhon baker

sleep sleep – where are you now? on Benedryl max strength, ultram, cymbalta and norco – I should have passed out mid OJ guzzle – maybe to add whiskey.

I love for southern France,
with my wife,
beautiful and windy
like chicago,
but more beautiful,
like my wife.

 – this at one thirty-six am, drunk off medications, OJ but no whiskey. – I’ll take four fingers of your finest, please.

January 30, 2011

bathe every open wound

by jhon baker

five am –

nothing like not being able to sleep due to the feeling of the skin crawling off the muscle and the emptiness invading broken bones.

A cigarette now and then back into bed –

my skin feels oily, my chest is going to explode.

insomnia – the supposed friend of writers everywhere.

try being a cripple with a cripple walk and then try wearing slippers. Mine have the image of Freud but even that bit of funniness doesn’t make them stay on any better when i cripple walk up a single step into the kitchen from the garage where one will fall right after I have outed the lights, followed quickly by the other in a scramble to replace the foot. crawling works better.

there is a child staring at me from the crack I’ve left in the door. It’s not mine.

This is probably disturbing as hell to my wife who is going to read this when she wakes up and realizes that I did not get to sleep at all or at least until six am.

she’s just learned that I’ve been cutting all my meds for weeks now.

this might be disturbing as hell to anyone reading this – or just mildly interesting.
I am not altogether invested in your reaction, although it is nice to read.

I didn’t post yesterday because a friend lost someone and I didn’t have words to comfort them.

I will probably delete this when I come to my senses later on.

until then – here’s a pome…

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bathe every open wound
bathe every open wound
murder me a rose
forgive the violations
adolescent pornographic magazine libido
a dirty young man
who has
old bones
who has
atrophied musculatures
who
doesn’t wear helmets
who
awakes in a plain mood
who
scribbles indecipherably
ill lighted back corner lots
who
limps triumphantly
dances incessantly
who
tears wildly at television commercials
who has
piles of unpublishable odes and laments
who
walks around with guns in pockets
who
gives to the rich
gives to the poor
gives lavishly to self
who
send out letters, mid-twentieth century formatting
who
masturbates feverishly under covers before trying to sleep
who
smokes privately, drinks publicly
who
once, in youth, stole a copy of John Lennon’s “imagine”
who
answers what, who, why and when
with why, what, who and now
who
walks lonely at night for no reason
who
cuts himself to cut out the childhood monster still haunting in dreams
who
quietly ignores the family dynamic of drama
who
sits up hours on end listening to poets in their own voices
who
uncompromisingly refuses to get up until all stiffness is diminished
who
rides motorcycles at 75-80 mph in route to therapy sessions
who has
forgiven people their existence but holds self at higher standard
I’ve given up
offer me that flower/rose from you garden
the one you promised me.
December 15, 2010

Vivaldi gives me a hard on

by jhon baker

but as I sit here and feel a mysterious depression untie me, instantly disbanding my intentions.
searching for the door now as it may be reopened that medications have washed out of me, forgetting my need and granting these recent lines of creation.
I’ve resurrected a bridge but decided to put away the friendship regardless. In some relationships there is no room for differences and the past isn’t always what some gratify it to be.

I am not alone and I wish to not leave this room, I wish to seclude and isolate, intolerate the world as it has done nothing specific or even so much as made note of any particular individual existence –
the world is not out to get me – nor anyone else for that matter. (Unless it is and, wow, that guy is fucked.)
a general distaste for the gathered throng is beginning to percolate again, bending my aspect toward something new or different, broken, old or discarded.
something borrowed, something blue
I am climbing at the walls and tilting at the ills that govern my outlook.

my brother, secret hero, our ancient people vilified one another
our ancient people spit blood on ancient corpses.

I already regret saying “thank you”.

words

the notebooks,
IBM Selectric IIIs,
et cetera
these are my shields,
protecting me from the world
from you –

My words are the weapons
I utilize

bludgeoning the audience
until they bleed from ears,
mouth, fingertips,
and eyes.


 – Hoc Scripsi

nothing I like more than killing them brutally with my words.

 – J.

November 12, 2010

After the trip and nearly healed…

by jhon baker

I’ve been back from Florida since Sunday when I promptly went to bed and slept the better of twenty hours. See the abuses to my body of such long days on my feet and the amount of pain control medications (prescribed narcotics and opiates) along with no sleep and catching something from the Hollywood theme park did me in for that day and really the rest of this week so far. My beautiful wife has been dutifully preparing the house for our sons birthday party tomorrow while I basically wandered around in a listless manner reading Paradise Lost and sucking on several Halls mentholyptis. She is better to me than I deserve.
I managed to write four pages this week and a poem to send off to my Aunt Kate who I have come to the understanding is dying and not going to live much longer. This weighs heavy on my heart indeed as she and I are the best representation of what family really is. She also suffers chronic pain and has Cancer to boot – earlier this year she broke her hip and has truly failed to recover from that – there was never any hope of a recovery from the lung cancer which is now spreading like the terrible disease it is.

I don’t mean to bring you down. I love this woman dearly and now only hope for her pain to vanish away no matter what that also means.

I realized that I’ve missed two Magpie photos and am currently looking at this weeks to suss out the right words.

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it’s okay to die
I look forward to death
with relief, comfort
and sedated melancholy.
if I look up now
what will I see?
and if I look down?
man was not born for
pursuit of perfection
but to be free;
not tied to breathing,
entrapped by fear.
it’s okay to die.
this is what I tell myself
while it is not too late
for living.
 – Hoc Scripsi
July 27, 2010

Thankfully, it’s fatal

by jhon baker

I’ve not been present for the past two days.  I would ask, beg, plead for forgiveness but I do not believe anyone has been offended or should be if they were.

 there’s a painting. Acrylic and ink on four canvasses. 54.5″x43″

The inability to have been present was entirely within my scope of control and I simply chose to not be or rather I spun into a depression that I am still in the grips of but am now choosing to at least be productive to see if that lifts me from the mire I find myself in. This isn’t a good time for depression as I typically hate my poetry and prose when I am this down and this depression has chose to not set any new precedents in that vein. Posting may be a doorway out or into an abstract depression which would also be fine.

abstract depression being far more preferable to standard depression
So, here I am in mid post with two photographs that have little to do with anything, but what is this post about anyway? 
I long to write poetry about the beauty of flowers but I either pick them or they wither while the words lie in wait for the impressionistic moment when they will be most needed. So the flower dies and I write vignettes about soup, carpeting and the clean feeling teeth have after eating a fresh apple. 
who wants poetry about flowers? who wants photographs about flowers?
just in case you wanted a photograph of flowers
the sun hides
–    for Jackson

The sun hides
behind clouds &
cold wind
but
   wishes
        to
shine down on
my garden
for the flowers

 – Hoc Scripsi

just in case you wanted a poem about flowers – sort of.
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