Every heartbreak and every imagining

We are fierce creatures,

though shambling and weak:

Dressed for darkness and hoping

for light we piddle away time,

tide and one more baseball season

…poor gurus make good

one night stands (oh,

you can make bank on that).

One more again I caught

myself babbling the same litany,

“Father Lord, sir,

save me from what I want.”

I am all angles on

nights like these: elbow

and chin, collarbone refracting

a dozen empty exchanges.

Wherefore art thou, Timothy

or Will or (for Godsakes, no!)

Chance -so apt a name

for so boring a person- ?

I haven’t one in hell, I guess.

Silky’s was as good a place

as any for dreams, I suppose;

before time and circumstance

Ran Up On One Another and

Shut Her Down, this place,

This hallowed ground of the

Great Sainted Me And You…

I still see the purple

dancefloor lights gleaming

royal off of your face with the

more-than-ridiculous smile

that took my patience and my knees

away from me, catching myself

in the mirror and surprised

at transformation there.

Who is that feral girl? Oh my.

I never thought I’d have

free-speeh concerns down the line.

Why can’t I speak your name aloud?

Why won’t I shout it, scream it, growl it

A thousand times a week, mirroring

the constant voice below my breastbone?

You are in every heartbreak and every

Imagining that I can feebly conjure up.

Dear Robinson:

I pushed and pulled at this one for some time. There is something strained about it, but then I thought better of polish, because maybe there should be something strained about it. The sort of underlying tension that mirrors the actual experience.

I am so unsure of my poetry, always, because it comes from another place entirely. Maybe that’s what makes a handful of lines just as fun as pages of prose.

There is great irony in the fact that, as I edit this piece all to hell and back, Maxim’s sleeping on his side, facing me, his beautifully breathtaking hand resting on my inner thigh. Only one secret between us and it could very well break the bank. Because, you know, infidelity of the heart is somehow so very much more treasonous than infidelity of the body.

Shit, you know, or you wouldn’t like the poems as much as you profess to. They’re all about the same damned thing.

Blessings,

Jett “Hot Damn, Did I Just Hang Every Last Bit Of It Out There Like That?” Superior