Poetry by Al Jordan

                ​fiction of reality CC




medieval 70's

if i'm lucky i will catch it under early light
& combine it after it splinters under the impact of my grasp
(as crabs shells on shore through time)
& i'll bring it together with cardamom syrup.

mumbling with conviction for a construction that i'm wound taught to with twine
enigmatics slain under a pigmented stroke of citrine                         with sincere hope
                                                                                                         only kissed lightly of naivety.

lamp glow wanes into a silver crescent before preparing for bed
yawns with a murmur
& slips into silk-stockings
                                                                              & silver chain link (not even for the world)
held in a jasmine mist,
beneath a deep wool eve
as if it's a faith

& her name is Pereliese (a dream-vision siren) who sings in low caw
of quartz cliffs,                          the sharp squawks
of sea birds,                               & of waves that fray into foam
                                                                                                         where briney canopies rise into thunder.

the jig we sweep our skirts round to,
where the twirl perpetuates itself.

& what on this good earth is without a spot?
               the whisper-bruise on the fruit.
               thread of woes strung through centuries.
               the abstract ache.
               it's even the ink underneath my fingernail.





what i didn't mind & the elementary nature of cruelness

once, my entirety leaked right out of my nostril 
& rested as a warm thick petaled rose on the bridge

                                               who sat next to the break & the bruise
                                               & after getting comfortable, 
                                               they spoke amongst themselves of 
                                               the elementary nature of cruelness.

what's the good in holding sadness
                                                                                for 
                                               ones' own sadness? 
(like a dog keeping a pet of its own).

cold, & in a bloodless pale,
with stitches as a fashion
                                                                                  (too early for halloween but still worn as vogue)
                                               they


                                              decided on coffee 
                                              & paid in coins.
                                              turns out it's cheaper than tea
                                              & because drip & cigarettes are so easy to join at the hands.

the city tore the old bridge down a while back now
but the chill of the haunt hasn't left.
my mind isn't deleted into half-said nothings.
& it all holds true through time.

there is no game to play with sorrow. 
                                              as there is no chase.
the world will be ugly, wicked, deceiving even - as if it's childsplay.

& i don't know if getting better is the point.
i don't know the value in goodness.

i know 
                                              that the nature
of ease, & absolute tender kindness           is rich &
a much more slippery silk to hold than any sorrow.

i can invite the stubbornness of my fingers in the fight.

as i ran, the sun was glaring in a shocking lightness along the ice 
                                                                                     but i didn't mind.
& that seemed like a change,
& really, that was all i wanted 
& it's more than what i've had isn't it?
so maybe it's enough.


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Al Jordan lives in Missoula, MT & works in a clothing boutique downtown. They are currently working on a body of work in reflection of four years of compiled journals following a roller skating accident which resulted in a traumatic brain injury. Their poetry is a means to regain a lost sense of self, joy, & catharsis.
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