July 16, 2015
this morning came around seven and then again around eight-fifteen.
I woke this morning to medications and everything being left of center by about six inches. As the day progressed it shifted to about eight inches right of center never actually being center. This is the way of it lately – yesterday spent most of the day right of center except my sons room which was three inches left. The day before that was mostly malaise covered and fuzzy. I contemplate that my medications are no longer correct for my diagnosis but wonder if maybe my diagnosis is more severe then we previously thought. Then again the world may actually be left or right as I awake and descend throughout the day but today it ends with my motorcycle no longer being mine and no longer in the garage. now in there are a mass of broken things and unfinished projects that I may or may not be smart enough to complete without assistance.
I don’t write here often because like this post clearly defines – I have very little to say that isn’t about lonely carpet tufts and apples growing on certain trees far away from here. I could write about my squeezing ceiling fan, blue curtains covering the slider in my room but that seems passe right now. And I am drinking coffee from my unbroken other favorite Vincent coffee mug. Sunflowers. Wheat field with crows was my favorite but now it is broken.
I’ve learned that some pain medications can deepen psychosis and as a result I’ve been taken off of them and am left with only two meds to control my pain and those don’t seem to be working as well lately. I’m sleeping a lot during the day to try and control pain. it works to a certain extent and offers me usual nightmares and vivid nighttimedreaming – I am ill from the side affects of something and find my appetite reduces to normalish levels but still sickened in the stomach with no abatement.
every time I turn around there is no-one there – only carpet tufts in some joyful crushed harmony.
September 10, 2011
we are dramatic by design, confused by normalcy – from a conversaton with MC
What some poem said in 31
I wish it was cancer, simple – to the point and either death or cure would deliver me without question.
I wish I could offer you that radiance, that moment.
what some poem wrote in 31.
the projectionist asleep
aisles full of faces, a thousand faces
and sorrowed malaise
the colors saturated
the film jumpy
like an old film with the tracking off
muffled vocal intonation
and a sharp disjoint from yesterday morning
where I sat with coffee and dunhill internationals
and an aspect of understanding
– Hoc Scripsi
September 6, 2011
my own private Elgin, Illinois
the sun is setting now and the leaves aren’t still but luminous, vivid greens and some reds.
verdant splendor of intense color shaded by a myriad of others and backed by intense whites and pinks of gravel driveway.
All images blur and skip frame to frame like an old 8mm.
2. (and then again)
all the colors become brilliant and to know what it means.
I gave god the better odds on this one.
loaded a single cartridge into a six-wheel and spun.
my own private Elgin, Illinois,
images blur and frame skip to slow
an old 8mm film
alighting the spirits of
Jack Daniels and Johnnie Walker
an unfinished life
and the poetry of John Berryman.
– Hoc Scripsi
September 5, 2011
215643 –
Trying my hardest today to not bellow and shout, scream at everyone who breathes in my presence. The fault is entirely mine, or at least it is the fault of an unknown source fucking up my tolerance level for people, things, coffee and apt consideration.
Last night – or rather this morning between six and nine thirty I slept. The first real sleep in days not driven by highly charged emotional states and nightmares. and at the moment my wrist is bleeding.
I didn’t harm myself if that is the conclusion the reader has leapt to.
a stab into the wrist from a light construction project in the destruction phase. Well, it is meant to be a light construction/room rehab project but the further I am getting into it the more I am realizing that it is going to need and today I am not up to the task of contemplating how best to accomplish the goal.
what I need is a four in the afternoon nap, some heavy sedation and a beer or bottle of Yukon Jack.
my problems are petty and the coffee is warm.
I can’t write a poem in this mood, flashing downward in a silent movie circa 1928 train wreck and bugs bunny taunting the shotgun in manic high.
squirrels wear a fur coat made of raccoon hide.
the platitudes of willful resemblance 