David Jackson Quickly
by David Michael Jackson
Write fast
don”t stop
let me hear those keys click
don”t you dare look up
you might miss this moment
out there
some where.
my soul on the paper
life ticks and tocks
the time away
slowly
one long endless moment
at a
time
waiting
waiting
for
something.
Don”t look up
you might
miss it.
This moment
p a s s e s
now this other moment
r e p l a c e s it
Each long
moment laughs at the setting sun
and
life passes
so
quickly.
***
Carry Me Home
By David Michael Jackson
Carry me home
home to the creek
and the water
and the leaves on the trees.
Carry me home
past the worry and the frantic pace to
the water and the dew on the grass
and the summer days
when grasshoppers are plentiful bait for
the fishes.
Carry me home to the field
and the newly plowed earth
and that smell of the soil
recently
turned
so that I may replant myself with hope
for a new
harvest,
so that I may kill the weeds which have grown over me until
I cannot see the light.
Carry me home past the roads, past
the buildings, past the red lights.
Carry me home through the darkness of a thousand nights spent
grasping for something which is not there, something which
could
never be there or
anywhere
Copyright © 1998 by David Michael Jackson, All rights reserved
***
PLAN B
you and me
terminal union
cancer full-blown
no chance of re-mission
we work hard
not to notice
outside
back porch
I sip cheap red
strum a cracked and buzzing
harmony six string
tell the stars
to go fuck themselves
upstairs
on your back
in bed
Cosmo opened
across your chest
you whisper
something to someone
on the phone
downstairs
in the kitchen
under the ironing board
the 3 year old sits
blissfully occupying himself
with a green, rubber,
T-Rex toy
welcome to plan B
much time ago
I was to be a writer
of words and music
you were going to travel the world
a single woman
scoring brown-skinned boys
taking in the sights
but as in figure 8 racing
we “discovered” each other
an “accident waiting to happen”
made ourselves giant targets
easy marks
lowest form of idiot
the “little-man”
has no such regrets
no fear for what’s future
he’s like a sponge
soaking up the moment
laughing to himself
as he and imaginary friend
slip past the angel
sent to guard Eden’s gate
Copyright © 1998 by THOM KELLAR, All rights reserved
***
KIND OF BLUE
What Miles Davis was
to melody
John Coltrane was
to virtuosity.
black giants
in white-bread world
mixing up a masterpiece
branding iron hot-glacier cool
tornadoes and sea breezes
shouts and whispers
bold slashing strokes-lines straight, and razor thin
the frenetic energy of a humming bird
the economized motion of a crow
muted trumpet-raging tenor sax
“Kind of blue”
2 of a kind
heaven squared
***
DEAD MEN
dead men don”t care what the surgeon general thinks
dead men drive around with no place to go
dead men figure the come-on at the end of the bar, more trouble than
she”s worth
dead men hold alcohol in a medicinal light
dead men will sleep in their work clothes
dead men never have to RSVP
dead men keep the curtains drawn
dead men buy cars, and smokes, based solely on price
dead men avoid eye contact at all cost
dead men doodle on the obituary page
dead men drive on bald tires with cracked windshields.
dead men accept with resignation, the next day”s hangover
dead men listen to Coltrane, and Davis, start to finish, no
interruptions
dead men never floss their teeth
dead men will drink Sake cold
dead men take the long way to work
dead men don”t sweat expiration dates
dead men never wear bandages
dead men are past blaming anyone
dead men see horse-shit and diamonds the same
dead men don”t care where the candle-wax falls
dead men forget what day of the week it is
dead men can”t get to sleep at night, can”t wake up in the morning
dead men have nothing in their hands
dead men never ask another chance
dead men have no need to make sense of anything
dead men play dumb when they know they”re being lied to
dead men have made the connection between sorrow and desire
after losing the thing he loves
a dead man will spend the rest of his days
anesthetizing the past
pouring gasoline on the future
dead men
have no fear of dying the second time
***