Off Beat Pulp

1
the reintroduction of the american timberwolf
to cry and howl across the mid-west wilds
stalking grey packs outlined against the horizon
with reflective eyes to startle passing cars
gives me hope for the future of poets.

though cattlebarons disagree with shotgun antics.

2
the gutters of kerouac
are the gutters of levy
are the gutters of whitman
are the same gutters as yours
are the same gutters as mine which are the gutters of the world; we're all on our backs, stargazing.

3
there is a sound made
when she opens her mouth exhaling,
a long, slow mystery of life
that shudders along the collarbone
(where vibrating, it becomes honesty).

4
this is important: you are all divine.
angels found in the details of living
and i am watchful of the tilt of yer halos.

5
i am built with faultlines darling;
every time you make me tremble
the world realigns oh so slightly.

6
i chase moments inside of movements
stopping at every roadside attraction,
balls of twine, giant frying pans, scenic views;
there is a truth to small town diners,
so if i'm late, be patient,
i'm bringing you coffee.

7
the trick to uncovering mysteries
is enjoying every inch of it
when the world hikes up her skirt
during the act of seduction.
(the mystery of collarbones though
should remain unknowable)

8
after a long day of writing or drawing
there is no feeling left in the fingertips;
pen pressure leaves lingering numbness
and i feel like a hypocrit.

9
minutes, hours, days all pass,
but this moment remains
extending its possibilities.

10
wasn't born to be rich
but to wake restless and reckless
reaching for pens through dreams,
to lay about in backyards
framing half moons in fingers
to be and love and live
and count pennies into the night.

11
lost my innocence at sixteen
rolling through arizona highway heat
my car seat sighing at gas station departures,
holding dear my form in anticipation
of revealing the next mile marker.

12
drove my old toyota mini-van
100 mph east out of the colorado rockies
through midnight kansas towns
that slept in the knowledge of safty
while tired cows grazed sage-like
on the reflected moons of farm ponds.

13
i slept among soft curves when younger-
can still tell you the rhythm of her breath,
the memory of fingers resting on breasts.
(is there a wisdom in that?)

14
made a day of it once,
sat and read through your poems,
my hand along the spine of your words,
learned to ache with every verb
as though the idea of action
had never occured to me before.

15
more than a rock in my stomache
creation leaves me a restless sleeper;
ink the jasmine of my eyes
blooming petals at two AM,
bending to pale light revalations.

16
the soreness of foot soles
has become an expression of faith
that leaves me genuflecting at entries
awaiting the absolution of door knobs.

17
scratch scratch scrath,
"i am digging a hole in you daddy,"
and off to play with building blocks.

18
poker games contain truths
hidden in muscle tics and hand motions;

she played
with the hair across her face
just prior to exhaling, "yes".

19
writing at this very moment
i'm reminded of eighteen years old
on that first date with krista,
the importence of muse realized
leaving me speechless on her couch.

i eventually found my voice.

20
speaking of muses:

i love you, darling.

i've been rewriting this poem
since that very first day.

21
endless bottles of fat tire ale
talking about all those girls,
the girls we knew and sweated over,
all the ones we hoped to meet
the world spinning on an axis of redheads

22
time has only one secret
full of high expectations
and constantly moving.

23
the ink well running dry,
twenty two poems in three days.
well.

my hands tremble at the idea of your chin,
that fine china fraility of voice:
you are india, rich with mythology

and far away.

24
i'm quite mad you know.
i regret blinking
chew my fingernails
chase the curves of necks
obsess over random scents
and grassblades between toes.

25
i keep looking for the answer
to the question of my insomnia
at the bottom of endless coffee pots.

26
woke to the memory of dream today
and no pen handy to capture it
so even that final arch is fading now.

i'm sorry.

27
there was an ice storm
kansas city in 1986
when the whole world froze over
and i swung a bat at the front yard tree
found numbness through the pain.

these goodbyes are winter afternoons
waiting for the feeling to return
28
fingertips across thighs
like lockpicks in trembling hands
still learning the art of entry.

she opened the door regardless.

29
a good portrait
is the struggle of orchids.

-JJ, 2006