lillie kate CC
I have seen them too, Allen. I have seen
those who fall! wail! at the death of
our fathers and holy mothers and then
fight growl spit over who who who
will get their bloody antiques and I
have also seen
those girls who agree to marriage with a
long-haired boy, makes her drunken
dad oh so angry, but then she divorces
his long hair, he is a drunken
just like daddy and then she performs
marriage again with a short haired Baptist
who’s mustache is packing up to leave
this city and she is tired of old
Amarillo – it’s Mexican sunsets, and I
those boys who were pushed aside by their
polyester mothers who didn’t like
fingerprints on glass and so little boy
grows up and grows a mustache and looks
for a woman who’ll pick him up - hug him
when he does good, or skins a knee, but he
meets a girl and she just wants the hell
out of Omaha, to go see
who are so much poor and personality ugly
that they always drop into bed with
slack eyed, red faced someones
who lie that they are eighteen but they is
only just fifteen and then one turns
pregnant but but but whatever for them,
because they are those kinds of
who share boyfriends with mothers/ babies with
sisters and cram their pockets full of
your extinct grandma’s antiques because
more cruelty is on hot hot 2 for 1 sale
who hide in Arkansas hills screwing their unmarried
wives, eleven rats, five children
and mom and dad tell them that Santa
brought a dead deer for Christmas and
if they eat it all they will be able to
fly when they get big, but there are
those of us
who see this lie. And our hair is falling out.
But the thin trees of Arkansas,
the Black River and Sugar Loaf Mountain
are not enough to keep us, us mangy dogs,
from finding someone
who, although beautiful, will twist us and
beat us and trade us for more youth
and more prize and we, not we, only I,
will never be free from hardly any
Jesus in the pew or in the wine or in
the body or at the dinner table, if I
do not quit this lineage of filth then
I will be the next one one one
who dies to the sound of hail marys but our
fathers, out father! The tears are dry
ones and the Black River has turned to salt.
My last breath only just leaves my lips and
the wicked family comes down from their tree
to divvy up my antiques with their axes and shovels.
The man I want
I am looking for
the soul of an artist,
the heart of a poet,
the touch of a musician,
the eyes of a magician
and the energy
of a traveling salesman.
Where would that leave me?
Balancing the books.
But as pretty as the numbers are,
they dance on the page for me
and I can’t carry the one.
My soul makes art too.
My heart is a beat poet.
My touch is measured and practiced,
soft when it should be
firm at the end.
My eyes see things that can’t be there.
But I’ll tell you a secret.
And I have a carpet-covered bag
with ancient artifacts,
collections from another planet,
odd jobs and quirks,
Gather round! Gather round!
I hold here…
come closer if you can…
I have in my bag
if you dare to believe,
a string from Cisero’s fiddle,
a scrap from E.E. Cummings’ grade school diary,
the pin from Magellan’s compass,
and a small mustache comb that belonged to Salvador Dali.
But I am still here.
I am still here
and I am all the things I want.
A.A. Jones is the operations manager for an independent journalism nonprofit called NonDoc anda break-up coach living in the Midwest. Her non-fiction work appears in The Momentum of Hope and her poetry appears on sticky notes all over her own walls. She is both uplifting and irreverent, and if you like that you can find her at www.indiangelajones.com.
Write something about yourself. No need to be fancy, just an overview.