words of a people aligned in their perfect order
Sunday,
for a change I am not writing about a death,
if one has happened I am unaware of it.
Early Morning – Chicago
I have trouble recognizing
daffodils on mornings
full of river hyacinth;
or rusted wheel barrows
with flattened tires
on mornings of daffodils.
– Hoc Scripsi
morning came more quickly than I imagined. Hard time falling off to sleep, woke up a few times to wander aimlessly around the house, and a hard time awakening finally. Yesterday, after the second post I had found my way in and wrote eight poems, all 10 lines or under for a specific submission but I was proud of them all.
I need to thank Troy Ygnacio Soriano. Thank you, I apparently needed what you said, stole part of it and turned it into an extension of myself.
here is my tip of the hat.
blue rusted wheelbarrows
a quietness of living space
is required at 5 a.m.
at least around here.
only Jose, who mows the lawn,
is allowed to interrupt.
I have trouble recognizing
daffodils on early mornings.
Mornings so full of cool air
& blue rusted wheelbarrows
with flattened tires.
I think you like me most
when I am tired from
waking early, worn out from
a nights occupations or mornings sight of daffodils.
– Hoc Scripsi
That’s all I got this morning. It fails at being much but succeeds at being.
My son brings me a scorpion… I am tempted to stop there as it is true, fascinating and white knuckle. He brings it to me and asks about how it stings you and wonders about its size and relative effectiveness (at causing death or illness). As we live west of Chicago there are no scorpions here, and especially these deadly ones that he brings me which is suspended in acrylic.
There may be some live readings of my poetry, performed by me, coming up. We shall see. I will film it and post that if any of these happens.
dying roses are not broken promises
literal or not
we bled on pages
and pages and
pages of uncertain poetry.
women bleed with efficiency.
dying roses are not
broken promises as
are crumbling petals
no longer red.
– Hoc Scripsi
maybe later I’ll have more to say, now I only have this poem and a cup of coffee and the few comments above.
right works crazed with manic energy
and we stay up late for them
the good ones go young and unpublished
rest of all stick around trying to be young
and published
thoughtless notes running through the anus
and mouth crammed with exotic mysteriousness
our strange bearded father now dead of cancer
leaving nothing unpublished and us wanting
grand exit – stage left
and we bow
– I wrote this
the platitudes of willful resemblance 