it is unfortunate that there will now be a lot of poetry about volcanoes and planes traversing the ash.
April 16, 2010
one off the cuff at seven-thirty Am
you can’t even laugh at your own jokes.
but I don’t know where to start.
we’re stranded on a desert island
and we only brought one thing,
it wasn’t the satellite phone.
a man crossed the road, longing
for the other side. or was
it a woman.
or a chicken.
I plan on never being as old as
my father, who is not ageless.
Miles Davis plays on the radio.
cleaning my glasses with microfiber.
abreast the impudent children.
– Hoc Scripsi
This is my offering today. not much in it’s own regard. I am working on two much longer pieces. and they consume a lot of energy.
it is suppose to rain today, I seeded the lawn yesterday. I assume it will not rain today.
April 11, 2010
Sunday, for a change
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
April 9, 2010
coming, going, what difference?
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.
the platitudes of willful resemblance 