creative writing

jjr

poetry

there is no god
and yet
it is every where
and every thing
including being
all beauty, love
and life
but conversely
it is also all the
bad things

you can be certain
of this much
without wishful
thinking

often people
talk past each other
like ships passing
in the night
and they love
to over-complicate things,
too

i think it’s okay
to be wrong sometimes
if what you really want
is to be right

and it’s most
important to find
a reason to live
and to learn to draw
water from any well
when it’s not rained
for a while

a leaf, exactly

poetry

i receive the cat birds that frequent the oak
tree in the alley between greylock
and 49th as friends although i am
not theirs, and can never be

their friend is the flimsy oak
which stretches and groans with
every new perch
because it is dying
and the city is killing it
which is my city

my every greeting falls on deaf ears
not only because we don’t speak
the same language but also
the big city birds don’t have
the same fondness for the people
of the city as they do in the country

the city is killing everything
they love
i am lucky they do not
attack me

and it goes on and on like this
my romantic and naive love
blowing away in the cold january wind
exactly like a leaf

your unlucky heart

poetry

while standing in
the shade a strong
hand took you

and although

i would share
a million sunlit
hours with you

at that moment

i was so weak
i could not even
look your way

i ran

and i ran
and felt remorseful
but never did i cry

which is just what weak men do

—

standing in the doorway
with the light bouncing
off kitchen linoleum

i lock eyes with Lal
it’s an eerily quiet
afternoon in wichita

i turn as i smell
a hint of freedom
in the air

i spend a moment with
what is left of you
inside me

it’s an awkward moment
because i am ashamed
and i finally cry

for you

lift off

poetry

the shower’s a warm blanket
but the cold lives in my spine
if only i could see
then i wouldn’t be so blind

tell me i’m not fine
tell me not to cry

the president’s a virus
and my family is the host
they pull all of their pants down
to get lashed by the holy ghost

castigate my mind
tell me that i lie

my father is a rapist
and my mother cries all day
the sun dances in the window
but has nothing much to say

i’m starting to unwind
i’ve nothing but the time

let up
lift off

peter pan

poetry

you’re not even the shadow
of peter pan
said the old man
as time stood still
in the place where you
wake up and are not sure
if you’re still asleep
and he lifts you
a bloated codfish, you
off the ground with just
the one hand, that
of an old pirate
and the other a hook
while you look around
frantically and feeling helpless and lost because no one
knows you here, anymore

are you
peter pan?
or are you
peter panning?

last night you remember
leaning on the balcony
drunk on whisky
or nostalgia
your childhood dreams crushing
under the weight of you
a bloated codfish, you
so maybe you jumped
or maybe you fell
or maybe you flew
off the balcony
t’ward
the second star to the right
until morning
maybe you woke up a changed
man whom saved his children and
the whole neverland from
the scourge of the adults
the pirates
the hook

are you
peter pan?
or are you
peter panning?

but you fell
and didn’t get up
another apparent suicide
round christmas time

yours is a selfish war

poetry

you rush forward
in simple straight lines
bayonets readied to
receive the deathly gasps
of your fellow country-men
of your enemy
and after
you close your eyes
and bury it sharply
into their chest
you look back
desperately for some type of
approval and see nothing
but a general
atop a horse
yawning