words of a people aligned in their perfect order
I’ve lowered my standards,
the problem might be that I had them in the first place.
you easily forget when you were at your best
in endless pursuit to surmount each previous work
and your output dwindles until you are
only writing fifty poems a year
which I guess is fine
though it is easier to say more if so inclined
and uninhibited
by meaningless constraints and various medications.
but don’t worry,
I’m still on the medications.
– Hoc Scripsi
There is little I want to write. That is a lie. There is a lot I want to write with no ideas of where to start. Looking for the in and cross wire of the brain athwart the limbic inhibitors, the shorted fuse of creation.
once this happened:
while at work
in the backroom
I heard the opening air of Nina Simone
singing ‘Lilac Wine’ and fell in love.
I wept openly listening and made record of singer and song.
going out that night I bought her catalog
and weep still every time I hear her voice.
this is unrelated:
My throat blisters from the burned soy in four shots of espresso.
I write the best when I am clear minded and mood stable.
I am having an off day, if I were more able I would spend the day in bed and slumber it away but cannot.
but that was the other day and this is a different odd day where nothing of much import is happening.
But here is a poem.
tenuous best
three thirty comes on too fast
echoing distant
distant heard
the world the way it is
tenuous best
mark of a truth
scorned, proffered
alone in a room
and you think Allen Ginsberg had it tough
writing, holy beard hanging down
poems about cock, assholes
poems about plutonium bombs
at least Jeffers offered his Judas
who suffered, agon
meant to be played out, on stage
offering to the thousands.
– Hoc Scripsi
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
the platitudes of willful resemblance 