Author: ajordan0826

I just turned 80 and

Here’s my fourth son

Got a hand deep in my pocket

And I’m pulling out a gun

Jumped it too,

Lips are blue

And now I’m speeding up

Lights are red here

On this street,

All wet from people’s sweat

Here it comes,

My bleeding gums

Not just the lights up there are red

Now my son,

You are young

Before you know it

I’ll be dead.

But here’s the thing,

Green lights sing

And in my eyes

I see green

Forget my debt,

Everyone else has

I’m just as good as

God to all these plebs

You’ll get my jet

And not my skin

And you’ll probably

Live a hundred years.

EGYPTIAN RATSLAP
Kings and queens of every known suit
By slapping hands are rendered moot
By the rodents in the gutter,
Profanities they utter,
And the Crown Jewels they come to loot.

FINDING SAM
A sea of people stretch before me
Faces morphing in synchronicity
But, egads, in the crowd
Dyed hair endowed
And my beacon stretches up endlessly

GABBING
The most divine activity of all
Greater than giants on shoulders tall
Is yapping into an endless void
Gabbing relentless, baffling Freud,
Forever delaying our curtain call.

DT COPY
Bless each line with the gift of sight,
Comb each word’s locks coil them tight,
To join the kingdom of the confirmed
(Or so the editors have this act termed)
For public consumption these comments we write.

IRISH FAMILIES
In the throes of each Thanksgiving
Irish families talk not of living.
Instead, across the table
Each mouth talks of fable:
“Survivor,” weekly for all sitting.

You know, in those moments of in-between,

I often find myself among transit:

Things always suspended between two scenes,

There and back, and the people all seem it.

*

All the biggest, youngest, smallest, oldest

And me, their compatriot, in the air,

We merry clay pigeons of the cruel coldest

Sun, prepped to land just about anywhere.

*

When are we one thing, but then not?

In fact, when did we become something else?

Perhaps we pigeons are what’s left to rot

Once our dear Sun has left her birds to melt.

*

Until that moment, we remain up there

Incomplete members of the whole affair.

***A sonnet built around Press Space to Stop’s song “sean”

He wakes, where could he have ever begun?

What could have brought this poor boy’s verity?

What could possibly bring some man’s grandson

Close to their bedroom’s singularity?

*

Revered for the infinite art inside,

Funneled down canals in shirtless youth,

Sounds digested for status, art aside:

Unfathomable art, there for a sleuth

*

A body made entirely of teeth

With nerves and endings not quite ev’rywhere

A blossoming head adorned with a wreath

Endless happy false starts without an heir

*

But surely if it’s good enough for God

Then Sean will bear it on his shoulders broad.

Sí, si

Estaría hecho en olas

Y no echo holas

*

Sí, si 

No estoy un planeta abrasado

Y tu mirada abrazado retrocede

De la lente de tu telescopio

*

Sí, si 

Me siento como un cosquilleo en tu sien

Y no uno de cien granos de arena

*

Sí, si

Nuestras gotas se pueden coser juntos

Estirándose a través de una taza

Y encontrándose a un tasa insondable

Mientras su velocidad les permite cocerse

******

In English:

Yes, if

It would be done in waves

And I don’t say hellos

*

Yes, if

I am not a scorched planet

And your embraced gaze pulls back

From the lens of your telescope

*

Yes, if

I feel like a tickle in your temple

And not one of a hundred grains of sand

*

Yes, if

Our drops can sew together

Stretching across a cup

And meeting at an unfathomable rate

While their speed lets them boil

**Starts from the end of the original poem**

And so with gentle graces we

With eternally preserved love enter

Into our un-noticing dear society,

My love toted with balanced center

May visit with the fine gentry members

And delight all with her agreeable visage.

Porphyria beside me, sitting sentry,

I stare adoringly at her unblinking image.

Other marriagers scowl with envy:

Never made in recordable recency,

Has there been more perfect a match than we

Our union’s success requires no evidence … 

Our sole disparagers nevertheless disagree,

Because one crowd remains unconvinced:

Porphyria’s fellow women gaze upon us since

Of the verity of our adoration,

They will not be made to believe, instead

With fear, frightful in their admiration.

They avoid the sapphires within her head

Almost as if they believe her dead!

This place makes me despise myself.
These people are beautiful.
I can’t stand these people.
They are so kind.
They are hideous shells.
I am among the gods as one.
This place makes me a believer.
These people drain me of hope.
They are radiant.
This place is not meant for me.
I long for even a taste of them.
This place is mine.
I belong to them wholly.
I can’t bear the weight of belief here.
These people offer me a violent death.
I can’t stop listening to them.
How are they here?
I have never found a better place.
This place is a new chance of life.
How am I here?
They are despicably predictable.
I am blind to their sensibility.
How could we be anywhere else?
This place is mine.
This place is ours.