words of a people aligned in their perfect order
Russian ballet
pit bulls and Mongols m.c.
my friend prefers Czech pussy
and I drink my coffee black
callipygian pose
drunk underwater
amative alliterative belletrists
a certain dissatisfaction
you don’t know anymore
any more, anymore
you don’t know
anymore
– Hoc Scripsi
the up portion of both arms is sunburned from riding a motorcycle on a beautiful day. This isn’t a complaint – I enjoyed the ride. Due to the over exposure to the sun I have found more energy that I am straining to know what to do with. This is not a complaint – I like the energy. I think my garage should be my focus and maybe buying a basket case motorcycle and putting it all together again – something to do but the garage is a mess and must come first.
Today is Federico Garcia Lorca’s birthday. Happy birthday my compatriot – your end was too soon and violent – this is a complaint.
I am rereading Moby Dick – last read over twenty years ago. I hardly remember the book – this isn’t a complaint.
The air is full of birds chatter and cackling squirrels running, chasing and enjoying the bounty of acorns that have begun to litter my yard. – this is a half non-complaint.
Apples have no bearing on the proximity of doctors.
here is a poem…
butterflies in my beard
– for Micael Chadwick
skies painted dioxazine, phthalocyanine,
violet, prussian, phthalo blues and greens
cerulean and sunkissed naples yellow
portraits of madmen at 35 and aging
midnight scenes on the arroyo
crossing lethean black waters
held fast to the stern
I have ultramarine oils
smeared across my forehead
because of you
butterflies in my beard
and cadmium red
staining my fingertips
because of you
we have met under porches
moonlit nights
waltzing, caroling
my heart has broken
handheld and shopped for nothings
with birds singing
and faces picked up in backyards
– Hoc Scripsi
errors, margins and cataclysmic exposure
walking a length of wire but stumbling, tripping and trying not to dance
side effects may include:
standard subterranean musings, echoes from the primal brain
we are lost, meandering aimless among a starry myriad.
– Hoc Scripsi
there are hundreds of miles of pipe running under the city I live in – probably thousands – all carrying water and sewage to and fro various places but we’re not hooked up and get our water from a well on one side of the house and flush sewage to the other.
we are unincorporated.
I enjoy time out in the sun.
the sting-y bastard in the corner won’t allow movement or breath.
tell me all things.
the glow of flowers and teeth drilled,
non-vanity correction but necessary.
we kiss like mad children.
snug in the afterglow of infancy.
the platitudes of willful resemblance 