words of a people aligned in their perfect order
the flowers are yours.
>
wrapped bloom
naked,
plucked ripe,
full,
stripped.
>
to be virginal
>
and honeyed
in tactile, close
. . eye’d
. . sensations
. . and warm, full
inhalations,
pressing close
>
between your breasts.
>
– Hoc Scripsi
>
I stayed up late for this one last night and I am not sure it was worth it. but there it is. – Jhon
thoughts on midnight and the secret hero in 8 versions
1.
piles of unpublished poetry
and I feel like Emily D.
except there is no song to these
2.
most of the verse written years
ago in a 3rd floor walk-up
an hour out from Chicago
when there was less between us
and moments were ours
without our knowledge or
at least without yours
3.
if this world was my will
or my idea – this
wouldn’t exist
and maybe never get written
even at 124 MPH across Colorado
before Denver
4.
these aren’t poems
nor one o’clock moments
of clarity
they are sleepless induced
narcotic psychotropic
overdoses
I casually wish I still drank
5.
right now
time is passing
but not without memory
and as I cannot say it is painful
you cannot call it hospitable either
6.
secret hero of my poetry
where have you gone
what have you been thinking
I cannot question now
as I cannot cope with the answer
7.
X XX
some kind of monster
and I cannot even look in the mirror
around corners
or close my eyes
8.
this is not a poor film
tho we all wish it were
– 10/21/2008 nearing 1 am
Holiday Inn
lights steady, turned on
at next doors busy restaurant
making midnight an artificial dawn
transients sleeping or trying
back turned while
we, looking out hotel window,
eyes wide
in uncomfortable bed
used by thousands.
N.C. 4-30-2011
– Hoc Scripsi
58
58°F
too cold to run naked down the street
waving arms and shouting
looking now, out the window,
bearded old lover.
glancing past the fallen leaves,
children’s play things
to lovers new, now forgotten
like metamorphosis read in early
collegiate days, studying the
swan and Leda,
before the tempest
searching back over the certain memories
when everyone drowned.
or further back to children poetry
in Sunday school where
first crushed on a thirty-year-old
unmarried virgin, venerean fantasies
not understood by the prodigious youth
that still caressed stuffed bears
and elephants with bells in the ear.
laying back, falling back
into cushioned chair under
lampshade stained with yellow light,
muted reminder,
long ago
put away like infirm aspirations.
– Hoc Scripsi
the platitudes of willful resemblance 