I may have
Googled
your name.
A penchant for
beards and
sharp
though
hormone-addled
brains
tests
my playful
though-steadfast
resolve leaving me
weak,
proverbially.
But mostly,
I fight against
A need
to shove you, hard
against a wall,
quixotically.
The grim reaper
is my best friend
he walks
with me
everyday
sometimes
down the sidewalk
and into work
sometimes
into the woods
alone
we’ll go
we sit
and talk
philosophy
and books
his favorite
author
is a prick
and mine
is a fraud
I don’t
stop for lunch
but he’ll pause
and eat
a ham sandwich
he is
kind enough
to pour me
a drink
at any time
of day
and
in the morning
we drink
black coffee
together
while laughing
at the news
A 17 year-old white
gunman crossed the Wisconsin
state line, packing
an AK-15 type .223
& sporting white privilege
opened fire on three protesters
because he disagreed
with their constitutional rights,
their politics
& which lives
actually mattered,
then
with assault rifle
slung over his shoulder
and hands in the air
calmly strolled past Police
who stood by
and did
absolutely
nothing.
Too Long in the Making
Passing through town
many summers stacked in my mind
sun heading down
yet a glare through the windshield
my old Chevy not use to this
giving someone a ride away from a riot
whirl of rage in the air
one of us not wearing a mask
she says it’s my fault
it’s in my genes
I shrug it off
only partly understanding
she asks how far I’m going
I turn the AC up and point ahead
she blows out a sigh
grimaces
I say most of us have been watching
too many movies
absorbed into too many songs
counting our money
and flat tires and rip-offs
all our lives
not examining the real scene
to the extent needed
she takes in a breath
settling back somewhat
you need to pay me she says
nonchalant
I squint staring at the highway
I only picked you up to give you a ride
she chuckles
you need to give me some recompense
because you’re white and I’m not
I smile
I guess I’m a taxi now
I won’t charge you anything
She laughs
and we become instant friends
over the hills and back into the streets.
Your kiss is not a betrayal
but a blue smudge of a
child’s sky drawing,
a spillage of sunshine,
handcuffs of warmth,
your kiss is a passport,
it is a hammer
without
3 nails.
I need to get my empire organized,
The heartland is fraying and falling apart,
The breadbasket is empty,
The sacred springs are filled with grime
And the aqueducts can hardly flow
Because of the filthy plates
Piled up like a dirty ziggurat down below
Warfare with online reactionaries
And barbarians has drained
This empire of the resources it needs
To get its fallow lands in working order:
Time to clean out the rubble
And create a place to set down new thrones,
I still believe a golden age awaits
My mail comes mostly
from desperate individuals,
some who just rage at me,
some who sigh or complain,
some who abjectly beg.
It can get pretty tiresome.
They all want to know how?
Why? When? What for?
Etc., etc.I used to reply
in person, but bad things
inevitably ensued: virgin sacrifice,
crucifixion, burning at the stake.
Next time, Jesus brings a shotgun.
we
left
jerry’s
after
the
bar
closed
in
bulldog’s
eldorado
headed
to nichol’s
lunch
when
murdouch
pulled
a .357
spun
the
cylinder
& shot
a hole
through
the
backseat
floorboard
at 39th
& main
when
my
ears
quit
ringing
we
were
halfway
through
our
brains &
eggs
Sleep wake dream wonder think
Where will we eat on my birthday
To make my lady happy, food
No longer matters to me, peace,
Happiness, a cup of strong coffee
Song of a bird, bark of a dog, a
Child’s laughter, rerun of a life
Movie, watching my daughter
Hugging a stranger instead of me
Going to the Taj Mahal for Indian
Food and seeing the men stare at
My wife, they wonder how I am
With a beautiful woman, she is
Not from India, the waiter asks me
For my order, I like naan from the
Tandoori oven, I ask if there are other
Meats cooked in there besides chicken
He replies, cama, I say what’s cama
I know it means bed in Spanish, he
Calls his wife and she says cama cama,
Do you mean camel? They both say
Yes, I say fuck if I’m eating a camel
I wake up, my lady asks, do you want
To eat at the Taj Mahal? I reply not
This year, please, I feel like smoking
Guess what brand, Camel Menthol.
your words stung,
and hung
me upside down, inside out,
to watch you
swan turned shrew-
hairbrush out all memory and meaning,
from those fresco pictures on the wet plaster ceiling-
that my Michelangelo took years to paint,
in glorious colours, now flaked and full of hate.
the lights of our pleiades went out,
with no new songs to sing and talk about-
suspended there
inside sobs of solitude and infinite despair-
like soluble syllables of barbiturates
in exhaust fumes of apology and regrets.
you left me prone-
to hear deaths symphony alone,
split and splattered, opened on the floor,
repenting for nothing, evermore-
like a salted slug,
curdled and curled up on the rug-
to melt away
while you spoon and my colours fade to grey.
the heart of truth-
intact in youth,
fractures into fronds of lies and trust,
destined to become a hollow husk-
but i found myself again in hopes congealing pools
and left the field of fools
to someone else-
and put her finished book back on its shelf.
____________
Strider Marcus Jones – is a poet, law graduate and ex civil servant from Salford, England with proud Celtic roots in Ireland and Wales. A member of The Poetry Society, his five published books of poetry https://stridermarcusjonespoetry.wordpress.com/ reveal a maverick, moving between cities, playing his saxophone in smoky rooms.
