Pseudepigrapha

 

As the bell tolled, resounding, it also told, 

of the death of the fallen Hero. His last 

quotidian day on earth and the detritus 

of memories that light up the contemptuous 

sorrow. The coward vacillates his gamble, yet

the Hero dies. His folie à deux: chasing freedom 

and some feebled belief in an unanswering god. 

We never know what nightmares lie curled 

beneath comfort’s pillow. Killing in 

the name of freedom with such 

heinous acts and calling this 

liberation is an alternative reality. 

Conquering the weak only represses

the hold on the masses. Kings are not

mortal; they rule by necessity and 

greed. A whipped horse obeys, yet

his eyes never forget the rack of

punishment he's endured. Revolt 

will come, and then all kings will 

bow unto the subservient soldier.

Chronology isn't kind to despots, 

kings, queens, and czars; let it be

written for the common man 

that no tyrant will ever control 

the world. 

An Hour in a Day

 

With not a worry in the world, I headed out in my car

listening to Bob Seger’s Main Street, 

Reclusive Tendencies

 

Reclusive Tendencies 

 

The boketto begins, no one is to blame.

Your meraki has fallen from your work.

You’ve travelled in silence to keep from 

screaming, this fanaa eats away like cancer.

You’ve never reached for any hand or smiled, yet

your futifaction glares back in gruesome hollowness.

Life’s become something more than you bargained for, you’ve 

squandered away all your hopes, and your last dream is vacated 

by grief. Once an oriflamme for misery now the only embrace

of comfort is sunshine. This adoxography placates your need to be heard

or accepted. Still, this Orphic is all you desire, you’re seldom

enthusiastic about some fancy mention of trivial wares, for your

 eudaimonia cannot be bought or secured by some shallow 

penchant. This genie won’t return her gift; one must first 

recognize one’s despair to begin to love what keeps you 

willfully alive. Death owes no promise to you, but living 

with the imperishable hope of retrieving this lost legitimacy 

is all that is required of this loathsome penance. You’ve lengthened 

your mind to vast catharsis, and worrying about death only shortened your life.  

 

- John Hardesty

 

©️1/23/2020

My Story

Hello, I'm John Timothy Hardesty. Please don't get up or upset over me.

I'm currently battling Cancer with an egg noodle. Heading to the Cleveland Cancer 

Center, where it’s like Hotel California, you can check in any time you like but you 

can never leave unless you're on a gurney or in a coffin. I previously had several 

tumors removed from my optic nerve and skull, one was so mammoth it cracked

my skull wide open like a nutshell. The doctor sealed me up, replugged me in, and

reprogrammed me back into society only to endure 33 bolted-down radiation 

treatments. When you're in remission you're on top of the world, yet after two 

years of clinic visits, doctor follow-ups, and scans after scans, they tell you

to have a seat, and then the oncologist screeches out almost like he enjoys to 

say it, “your tumor is back in your skull.”

I go home and I immediately start hurting in my head, either from 

psychosomatics or psycho-bananas. I'm Frankenstein with a new attitude. 

I was nourished on Hemingway early in life, his stories connected me right

into the plot, he took me everywhere with his creative narratives. Hemingway

had some moledro or voodoo on me, I knew him well, so I thought. I suffered

through the poets of Lord Byron, Tennyson, Shelley, Poe, Dante, Keats, and 

Shakespeare. I studied every great poet in every country over the span of forty 

years, and many, many great novelists too. 

Yet, L.E. Sissman had the most influential nexalune upon me. 

Sissman was the class Poet at Harvard in 1949, yet, he was cursed with Hodgkin 

Lymphoma at 37, yet produced some dark poetry that stands out to me. 

Dead People Don’t Dream(Haiku)

 

                   Dead people don't dream

                   Dead people don't walk about

                   Yet, ghosts speak loudly