Happy birthday Willem de Kooning. Love your stuff.
no matter how long I live, life will be painfully short.
at times it has been painfully long.
even if I live to be centurian, then dying of
old age,
how is life regarded and why is death not our inevitable friend.
– Hoc Scripsi
the fine art of the mea culpa
as I try to right my life
and hone my influences
there seems less to write about.
plenty of the ol’ inspira
but none of the drama.
none of the cascading
disappointments or pie unreachable.
no more life without happiness.
hard to admit,
that so much poetry can
only be written by the
chronically dissatisfied.
harder to admit
that this is preferential
to the former,
or that the former is
not missed.
and I am waiting for
my shoelace to break.
– Hoc Scripsi
I wrote the above poem not from personal view as at the time I was slipping into a deep depression where I would subsist for several years but from the one where the writer can only write about being sad and never from the perspective of any other emotion. Like death would always bring about the birth of bards. bullshit.
On writing – the clearer my mind gets the better the writing gets, the easier it is to do. It may be that I write only because I have mental instability, diagnosed mental illness, that I am able to write but but but, I take medication to curb these effects so I am not affected – only inflicted.
Basically what I am saying is that most other writers are full of shit.
maybe I am too.
the platitudes of willful resemblance 