Jackson

you are around my neck you are in my ears you are on my fingers and wrists and ankles your leather frames my back your denim defines my legs your words line my gut and your movements drive the valves and muscles of my big red heart. Read more

His knobs, his dials his bricks and his tiles raking in piles His art, his tries his big mud pies His lips and his prick making you sick His starving eyes Your faking and lies … Read more

Your eyes, your hands, your naked crackling messaging eyes and hands, your cloudy-sky-blue eyes and suave suede hands, the healing highrise hellfire of your hands, and the output from your mouth, the medication from your mouth, your mezzanine interface mouth— the marginalia of your mouth, your desperate mouth. First published in WordThirst Read more

On TV, they’re repeating Billy Connolly, with his Britain, Ireland, Scotland travelogue. His comedy, art, respect. I have a book from the library. British, Irish, Scottish poetry since 1945. Cold moors and stones and canals. Old wars, prisons, suicides. Women both hopeless and whimsical. The democratic voice. The Irish poets resonate like a bell in Read more

Feeling so lost, you use a tribal name, to attract somehow your scattered family, regain your buried culture. I have my little signatures, tribal marks, to signal somehow my scattered fellows, recover my hidden kin. Occasionally they find me, allow their tribal scars to sense somehow these frayed links, uncover these blurred sensibilities. Are we Read more

You look like you’ve had it. Want a beer? Beer! Hah! How about some heroin? You’re not serious. Oh yes—some heroin would be lovely just now. Right into this arm here. I’d thrill to the fear of the strap and the needle. And to hell with the consequences! It’s a good thing we haven’t got Read more