There you have it. My writing room and room of requirement – separated by a non-existent door but the frame of one.
July 15, 2011
Post 400
and my readership is at an all time low. I blame my choice of switching formats and web addresses.
I thought I would make an interesting post it being 400 and all but I am not feeling interesting today. This means plainly that you ought to read the previous posts, the ones that led to this moment in time, marked by a simple heading and celebrated by taking four kittens to the vet.
I have eleven years worth of poetry that has only ever been read by the recipient and never republished or even copied. This is a detour from my modis operandi which dictates that I keep a copy of everything unless it is crap and deserving only of trash heaps and recycling.
I think that after my death there may be a collection out there titled “love letters” – but it may be that they are always kept private. as it is they are not mine, I wrote them but K owns them, they are hers and only she can dictate their offering. It is my job to create the market for that particular collection before I die – as if I kicked it right now there wouldn’t be enough interest – save the few hundred that have purchased my initial offering.
Do all writers obsessively keep copies of everything? Once this would have been labor intensive but is now quite easily done with the technology that has erupted around us. Even in the age before the widespread use of computers many writers used carbon sheets as I am sure I would have done if in that age – now I use a copier that came attached to the printer which came attached to a fax and all together has the ability to scan things.
but all this is off subject – or I haven’t a subject. The kittens cost me nearly 500 today and we are giving up one of the seven cats that inhabit our household this evening. Over the next few weeks we will be two kittens short of our current count and can then start considering colleges as there are too many bodies occupying this house at the given moment.
I am gripped by my body’s sense of humor.
June 22, 2011
I almost never write naked – there are times while in bed and after feeling enraptured beyond illumination or prose by the pressing together of two forms and bonding with sweat and efflorescent nothings whispered passionate in each others ear – those times I will roll and pluck out a small black notebook and pen a few lines before returning – but most of all is written while dressed and thinking back with forward anticipation.
June 21, 2011
pain and poetry
From here, the days just keep getting shorter. This is what informs my day
What would you do if you knew you could not fail? this is the test to know what you should spend you life doing. it is suppose to be rhetorical and/or asked by every guidance counselor of every pimply faced teenager who doesn’t know yet what they want to do. I didn’t know then – or I did but it wasn’t considered a wise career choice.
My answer now? – no longer live through the vagaries of chronic pain – find a way to free myself from the unrelenting haunt that are, the constraints of living that are, physical pain and mental anguish.
What I once wished was to be a poet – to varying degrees I am that now, I live it and it is possibly pain that has given me this aspect, pain that has offered me clarity through pain controlling medications, pain has offered me poetry that does not belong on even the most interesting hallmark cards.
June 8, 2011
coffee
I need to start drinking iced coffee or maybe iced tea. I’m the only one I know that really doesn’t care for iced tea and I absolutely cannot stand iced coffee. iced soy chai – now your talking but why go out and spend five bucks just to sit outside and fuck around on the laptop. It is never too hot to enjoy the home brew – it is never too cold to eat a bowl of ice cream, and all movies watch better with popcorn.
Today’s poem is a few years old and has been published twice – once in Roadkill zen Journal and again in my book, hands on the hips (available from Amazon or signed if you order through the buttons in the upper right hand corner), I have put it up because RKzJ has closed their site and it is no longer available there – this is the bad thing about internet publication, it creates no history. I think I should take screen shots where my poems appear on this world wide web just to have the history for my self – kept in a box at the bottom of a closet.
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togethercoloured
roadside diner,
a dollar for bitter coffee.
I want the hard rain.
I want the long rain,
HARD on my shoulders and face
with hands stuffed in pockets
clutching three dollars.
I want the drowning rain,
pooling underneath
walking feet. Running
shoes cleaned and soaking;
peregrination of two miles
in a Chicago summer,
toward a phone call, paper towels
and over-extracted coffee.
– Hoc Scripsi
the platitudes of willful resemblance 