poetry

J.A.Z.Z.

poetry

I hope the boys with trumpets
roll through Monday.

We’ll let ’em swing.
Yeah, that dixieland
that ol’ big band
we’ll let ’em swing.

The cymbals splish
splashing and the
bass just pounding
and I hope the boys with
trumpets come
‘cuz man, we’ll let ’em swing

Bad Directions

poetry

By the pocketful
by the absolute bucket
there is forward motion
via funnel and pump
and adding machine
there is forward motion
from the spinning wheels
and thrusting pistons
and jet engines on passenger ships
though the dirigible has long since
been abandoned
there is forward motion
leaving animals behind
leaving modest means askew
leaving fresh air as a
commodity
there is forward motion

Let’s take a few steps back.

I Won’t Be Long

poetry

An unimportant twilight errand
Against casual entreaties
But a promise wafting in the tresses of mulberry hair
Scented with fresh shampoo
Whispered in a cabled charcoal pullover
I won’t be long, she said.
A garbled moan from the engine outside
The whine ebbing to silence

To screech a thunderous collision unheard
In headlights too rapid for response
Red then ringing then red and white
Powdered glass a fleeting monument
Timidly lingering evidence of the unfulfilled
This is loneliness, I promise.
You have my word, I won’t be long

Sensorily

poetry

You smell just like you came home from a radio show
and you read just like the communist manifesto
Well I think I’m probably rather fond of you
and not just the thought

Well you feel like all the cold brick streets had softened up
and you sound like every songbird singing ‘ all shook up’
oh the theories runing through my head don’t compensate
for the bit I swear I didn’t think I thought

when day is night

poetry

and night is day,
everything seems
just the same;
and sleep recedes;
and sleep returns;
and in the same moment
pain is found,
as is peace
and hope that someday,
hopefully soon,
we’ll be able to better commune,
and finally understand each other.

run, pray, think, beg, live, hope, rinse, repeat.

poetry

repetitious pounding of heel to cement
slowly (faithfully) produces delusions of grandeur
and
i run not for exercise but to flee
cognitive stagnation

then dreams flow in

you’re God not man and your power
not limited by my dreams
is by all means larger than i fathom
(should i choose to try…
when i choose to try)

so when i pray to tug your heart strings
to change
for transformation on the city/province/country
scale

i know my dreams too small
i beg for bigger
i run much harder
thinking

if i can numb the pain in these joints
over time
perhaps i may numb the walls i’ve built around you

a little more
one bigger dream at a time.

cliche thoughts

poetry

two days ago,
at just this time,
you weren’t.

and then you were,
with screams,
with kicks,
with little, furious fists
mad at the world,
making sure that you were heard.

and now you’ve somewhat mellowed,
allowing me to think:
about who you are;
and who you were;
and who you yet will be;
about what you will do to me.

Perfect Loneliness

poetry

What is in a dream, that I should dream awake, breathlessly and sorrowfully? I who has yet to live.
Days push me around and each second weighs in on me- judging the flicker in my eye- I am not a woman of substance.
I have fallen in love with many a dead men… Oh how they light up the beat room of my existence !
They do not cringe at my awkward aura, twist my thoughts into ugly monsters, or laugh when the earth buries me.
When poverty rides my back, they borrow light from the sun and salt from the sea so that I may stand straight.
They make me believe that even if nothingness ruptures inside, the universe may still breath through me …