Two Poems by Jason Hardung
DEAR MR. CARVER
I’m not blind
still I don’t know much
I do know the
spires twist like knives
into the guilty soul of man,
people in fancy clothes
begging for eternal life
while people out
on the streets
get on their knees
to make it through
one more day.
Its just past seven and the window
no longer frames the cold pink sun.
The trees are props bending
in a starry-eyed background.
Somewhere behind the lighted store front
the mountains rest well in all their dirty history.
I can’t see them but know they’re there-
I’ve got Colorado on my eyes
Los Angeles in my mind.
I had plans for you
you were supposed to become larger than life.
I pulled strings at your baptism, you laid back
to your ears in the mud of the L.A River
and those police helicopters
looked something like confused angels
lost in the sun.
Now you dance on tables in Little Armenia
those five inch heels no longer clicking together
in Judy Garland fashion
but your legs still look strong
almost like telephone poles.
And me, I’m frightened at what the postman brings
frightened another morning will break
without your insecurities keeping you around.
I found one of your hairs
and tied it to my wrist
I can’t remember why.
Sometimes comedies are the worst type of tragedy.
A mother’s intuition is never fleeting,
never like birds fleeing the shotgun echo,
nothing like a man with only four walls and a clock,
the only friend of a broken heart
burns going down and kills in the morning,
all a junkie shoots in the blood
are things he mistook for love,
the clown is only happy
until he finds a shoulder to cry on.
The window is all the way dark now
except for people standing under the street light
the cars, the movement, the hyperion glow.
the stations of the cross don’t play rock and roll and
I never said I was good for you-
I just said I was good.