Author: Jay W. Ess

No Money Down

poetry 
like a currency 
we pass each other back and forth
never quite spent
though inflation cuts the value down 
bit by little bit
and I try to stretch it
just for a day or two
but there's always another bill
or beer or tab or ticket
so by and by the money's gone
til you come back by one night
with fresh groceries for me
and a brand new list

Pay You All Mind

poetry 





I can feel you 
vibrating
just inside the resolute bone
of my skull
not quite to the brain matter
but my eye twitches 
nonetheless
like a control center has been
disrupted
or a nerve has been
obliterated
and there you are
pulsating 
like a palsy
as my lips snarl back
uncommanded
then there's the buzzing
that creeps in
ear by ear
and my teeth feel thicker
now
as the swell in my tongue
starts and

oh

and there goes 
the rest of me



		
	
					

			
	
			
	


			
				



	
	

		
Amen

					poetry
		
			


					

			

I know what you're thinking
but there simply is not enough
God to go around so if you could
pack enough clothes for a week 
or two 
and the novel you've been 
uhm
working on
we can start driving by breakfast
and could be to the bridge 
by noon at worst

now there may be no crossing
in this car of ours
for God is in low supply out here
so make sure that your pack 
straps tight
and stuff the manuscript in
at least a pair of ziplocs
oh, and leave the Docs behind
you'll need something with laces
so they can pull and be tied on
if we do have to go in

we'll find towels and heat
once we get off the shorline
and out of sight of the long guns
but this is where we'll need it
so save all your precious God 
for that one sprint
and use it all up, every last little bit
you've got
because if we don't make it 
to the treeline
we wont need any more God
anyway

					

			
	
			
	


			
				



	
	

		
Schmuck

					poetry
		
			


					

			

Schmuck the dog died
shivering with shallow breath
likely on a towel 
in the middle of a hardwood floor
after weeks of being carried
so he wouldn't piss himself
to the back yard or
to another towel in a room
upstairs

and I sat on the couch 
and I watched him shake 
as he lifted his head at least
to eat the painkillers in the soft cheese
and that old guitar was in tune
so I played it pretty hard
for a while

and even when he couldn't sit
or speak or roll over or do
any of the dog things, or even
ask to go outside or make it
to the door, Schmuck
was a good boy to the bitter end
And I really didn't know him 
for very long, but really 
that's all you need to know
about Schmuck the dog







					

			
	
			
	


			
				



	
	

		
Hereafter

					poetry
		
			


					

			

There is no darkness, no cold
in this ungoddened place
and  when I drift unmoored 
I do not suffer nor dream

in this infinity 
the light can not find me
love is hardly a memory
you are a stuttering moment 

and I am an effigy here
with dry hay stuffed down my back
and no fire to light it
useless to the last

					

			
	
			
	


			
				



	
	

		
Perceptibly In Motion

					poetry
		
			


					

			

It keeps turning I guess
kinetoscope
or a celluloid reel 
or a magnetic tape cassette 
pinned to a motor 
whirring and clicking 
on and on and on and on
unbroken unchanging 
and to stop would be
catastrophe
half  ice age that never melts away
while the other half bakes
in the nuclear heat of the sun
and I guess what is the lesser
of the horrors to face
as the show goes on
in its wretched way
or eventually that
the movie finally






					

			
	
			
	


			
				



	
	

		
The Science of Bleeding Out

					poetry
		
			


					

			

You found me in the corner
fading fast while the lights flickered
and there was a big engine idling
outside, a wrecker or an ambulance
that somebody must have called
while I clutched my guts and I
tried to keep them in

and there was music playing
a little too loud
in the other room
and I clutched my guts
in the corner where you found me
while the big engine idled
and you tried to move me
but I was fading fast

and the lights kept flickering
as more and more of the blood
ran out but I could only clutch
so hard I guess and the music
kept playing in the other room
while my hands began to slip
and the song was singing to me
you've got to stem the evil tide
and keep it all on the inside
Mary you're nearly a treat
but you're really a cry






					

			
	
			
	


			
				



	
	

		
Maintenance

					poetry
		
			


					

			

It's such a cold custodial feeling;
the incessant push of care
against the unstopping rash 
of filth and oxidation

So I answer every text
as if it will make a difference
this time

and now and then I brush
through the crust of mildew
to see the white of tile 
but by the time I drink my water
and readjust my rubber gloves
the stains have come again 

and even though it's 4am
I return your latest call
and I refill the chemicals 
in my various spray bottles
until the emulated ringing sound
stops chirping in my ear
and I guess I have to leave
another voicemail



					

			
	
			
	


			
				



	
	

		
This is what it feels like to talk to God

					poetry
		
			


					

			

The Angels were calling to me
that night, through the frozen still 
as the street lights made the glaze
of fresh snow glow like magic 
and I was dross in a Pontiac
a bunched up whopper wrapper
jammed between the seats
praying to unfold enough 
to wait until the door swung wide
and flutter unnoticed 
out on to the icy drive
where maybe the Angels 
would find me, and cast me
not into the garbage heap

					

			
	
			
	


			
				



	
	

		
Body

					poetry
		
			


					

			

Like a rotting corpse
you follow me
and I without a word
step carefully
through damp woods
far enough from the freeway
where you can't hear cars

and I'll find a place
to rest and begin to dig
pressing a spade
in the soft earth
but the smell of turned soil
simply can't compare

when I am deep enough
I beckon you to the edge
and you only groan a little
as my Red Wing finds you
and there is no ceremony here
when the fresh dirt
starts to fill you in

and by the time I find the freeway
as the sun goes down
The stench has cleared my nostrils
and I can hardly even remember you
dead or alive or at all











					

			
	
			
	


			
				



	
	

		
Read Me Your Poem

					poetry
		
			


					

			

I like phrases with repetition
that sing-song even without
any music at all, and I
like when it almost says
the same thing twice,
but it reads completely
different, and I like
when your eyes roll back
and you imagine to me
your own grand majestic
hymnal, in your 3am voice
on the telephone. and
I don’t care if you
spell anything right,
even in the repetitions,
because I like when it
almost says the same
thing twice, as long
as you write it down

					

			
	
			
	


			
				



	
	

		
Scalpings

					poetry
		
			


					

			

what’s another rock I thought
as I cast a chipped hunk of granite
in to the dark pool at the bottom
of a long-flooded quarry





I watched the water break and ripple out
filled with industrial runoff
and whatever eggs had been left
by insects hardy enough to venture there





it was half-past midnight I guessed
in that moonlight in that springtime cool
picking up another stone
and wondering if I should call
or if it was still too late
even with the time change





a plop and another set of ripples
and the stars that much further
across the sky, Eastern or Mountain
it made no difference





If I’d only a bit more wasted rubble
I could have kept that water broken
until all the heavens had spun
and come almost back around





but with all the other rocks, I thought
in the dark pool at the bottom
of that long-flooded quarry
I must have thrown my phone instead






					

			
	
			
	


			
				



	
	

		
131

					poetry
		
			


					

			

I have a terrible day-dream
and I am speeding down a highway
but the day-dream has me
so I hardly notice the cars
that beg to merge
into a southbound lane





and we are on a great golden cloud
flying over the Andes
or the Himalayas
or the Ural
or perhaps even the Appalachians
and the air is so cold and perfect
and cold
and we are gliding forth
impossibly





Look! There’s God! you say
when suddenly we arrive
on the highest peak on the range
and the great golden cloud
evaporates





We are just below the apex point
a hundred yards or so
but we can not see the top
God’s up there! you say and wave
and point and wave
the air is thin for us I think
but not for God I guess
as you start to climb





When you notice that I do not follow
you stop and turn and shout
Do you refuse to meet God?
This can not be god, I say.
God does not simply fetch you
up the mountain. How could you come
to know God, without the climb?





you shout again as I turn and leap away
in to a dark chasm down below
and I consider my fate as I fall
for what seems like a lifetime
as your voice echoes away
Better to perish in real darkness,
I think, than incinerate in some false light





and perhaps I die then, but I never know
for the awful day-dream always seems to end
as the fuel light chimes on

					

			
	
			
	


			
				



	
	

		
Outside

					poetry
		
			


					

			

The rain is coming harder, now,
surging the storm drains useless
rattling the roof apart, it sounds like
and the power has flickered twice





so you keep packing your clothes
rolling and stuffing in to that ratty duffle





Modest Mouse is blaring on your stereo





and I am standing under the vestibule
glad for the cool that the storm pulled through
until the humidity kicks up
but I’m dry enough now looking in





and you fold your plastic poncho in half
so it will just fit in the side pocket
the rain will be gone soon, I guess





there’s the drip though, sneaking down
from some thin crack in the vestibule
to tap me on the bicep now and now
and Modest Mouse is blaring on your stereo
and I guess I’m dry enough

					

			
	
			
	


			
				



	
	

		
Perhaps We Fucked This Up

					poetry
		
			


					

			

Perhaps I am a vampire
but I have always been this way
he said
as sunlight poured through
the open curtains





You can stake me thorugh
and that will slow me down
and I will not fly from you
as a rabid little bat
or simply float out as gas





and he cackled when the door flew wide
and the whole of creation
lit our sitting room





I have sucked your wretched blood
and savored your filty scabbing throats
and when the time comes
I will eat your rotting hearts
in front of everyone





and you were panting in the entryway
a perfect silouette in the dawn
but he just kept laughing
that awful laugh





Perhaps I am a vampire
but that daytime shit
was just in old movies
and when it comes down to it
maybe you’re vampires too

					

			
	
			
	


			
				



	
	

		
All In

					poetry
		
			


					

			

They are carpet-bombing the Holy Land
as if there were only one





and I am laying in bed
typing at my computer
trying to figure out
what I can do to convince you
that things just aren’t
as bad as they seem





but the bodies keep piling up
in Congo and Palestine
and Burkina Faso and Venezuela





and I dreamed my brother fell
off of a ship in the Indian Ocean
and he dreamed his son died from cancer
in Ohio in a hospital 
so I guess even dreams are bad now





and I am laying in bed
typing at my computer
while the power grid flickers in Tbilisi
wondering if I should even bother
getting back up
when the alarm goes off

					

			
	
			
	


			
				


			
				



	
	

		
If Time Could Travel Backwards Part 8

					poetry
		
			


					

			

time cannot travel
backwards





and that deserves
repeating





the sins of the Father
are naught but Holy Ghosts





but the plastic in your blood
is real





and your tired bones
don’t get better
at being tired





wrap your legs
for surety





lash down the mainsail
tight





but forge on
and fearlessly!





for God is out
on these shifting seas





Impatient
but still waiting





time cannot
travel backwards





and that deserves
repeating

					

			
	
			
	


			
				



	
	

		
I See You In My Dreams Some Nights

					poetry
		
			


					

			

its been five in the morning
for many nights now
struggling to find the darkness
in the vibrating glow of you
but all the lamps are unplugged
and the window is cracked
and you could always just leave





yet you haunt the black corners
just beyond closed eyes
and then the foundation shakes
the queen bed lurching
as the hot and the red comes up
through the fissures in the floor





so now I am descending
pulled by reaching tendrils
down from the Great Below
and I see your smile in the dim
and I feel  your sparkling eyes
and you cold always just leave
but you didn’t
did you

					

			
	
			
	


			
				



	
	

		
Untitled Unfinished 2/11/22

					poetry
		
			


					

			

I thought about the time
you and I got whiskey drunk
and drove to North point Beach
in Van Buren
at 11:00 p.m.
because you didn’t believe me





the cell phone flash
walked us through the secret path
and our drunken feet
climbed the back of the dune
and we watched Lake Micihgan
in a fever pitch
capitulate in the cold
for hours