September 2014
Last month I published my latest chapbook, Appalachian Night. Previous books include Every Green Word (Finishing Line Press) and Cracks and Slats (Amsterdam Press). My work has appeared in Tampa Review, Sugar House Review, Melic, Sleet, Crate, Mantisand other journals. The new book is free to anyone who asks via email: chineseplums@gmail.com. It's kind of an experiment in self-promotion and karma.
Editor's note: The following poems are all from Mark's latest chapbook, Appalachian Night. Mark has graciously offered to give out free copies of this wonderful and beautifully-printed book... In his own words, 'Anyone who would like a copy can just email me: chineseplums@gmail.com The book is free to any who want. Purely a gift.'
Appalachian Night
Enfolded by pure darkness
a train slips through the hills,
past the occasional litter of homes
leaking garish light.
In a kitchen window, the silhouette
of an enormous man who thinks,
gazing at the train,
he could love anyone on board.
To the Hobo Who Flipped Me the Bird When I Waved
You are not Walt Whitman,
forget your long white beard and mane,
the way you loaf
on the Oklahoma grass, springing up
electrically to say that I,
in my glittering car,
can go fuck myself.
On second thought, you are.
Separated
This motel room, spare,
cool as a shoebox
Perfectly designed
for things that walk away
Lawn Flamingos
October. Topped with frost,
they migrate not much less
than commuters and bus drivers
flecked with gray who pass them
every morning, dreaming
of pink summers,
checking for lost plumage
in the rear view.
Milk and Eggs
Our vows are dead. In their place,
keep it small-scale.
Use simple declarative sentences
to tell me real things.
Plain words, too.
Like "milk and eggs." Say,
"We're low on milk and eggs,
I'll be home soon."
First Night in a Strange House
Just divorced,
I follow my heart,
blind men bumping in the dark.
The Insomniac Wants to Curl Up Somewhere
Like a cinnamon roll curling
into its soft, sweet center.
Like the cat curling
into herself, finding
warmth, peace, knowing
there is nothing to do
but love oneself. This
is where the problem starts.
February
Crows
on every bare branch
Black Christmas trees
for when
God bestows the gift
of nothing
Locks
All those times I locked you out
after we fought like vipers.
All those hundreds of dollars
spent to keep you away.
All those glittering keys,
their little teeth bared.
Yet I address you still,
proof there is no door.
Last Visit to the Home
in the parking lot one starling
on the wire like a
period
Kathleen
I saw a woman walking down the middle of the street,
twirling a bag of groceries. End of a summer storm.
I remember when I loved you, it was bountiful, precarious,
a little bit illegal, and the city shone.
Later On Our Wedding Night
Two Silences in the House
Like a Shaker bowl,
the house contains the silence
of belief and
like a Navajo basket
containing none of our business
it is keeping quiet,
deathly still, in fact,
about God’s plans.
The Old Guys at the Pantry, Breakfast, 5 A.M.
San Mateo, CA
It started as a spot,
a small one,
on his leg.
Dennis,
with that van,
those crooked teeth,
that grin.
Nothing lasts,
not heat pumps,
toilets,
HVAC units,
fishing boats,
erections,
hot coffee
or first wives,
nothing but
the fog
rolling in
from Half Moon Bay
and the human
need
to burn it
off with words:
muffler,
toast,
butter,
rip-off,
mother,
love,
Colin Fucking Kaepernick,
marlin,
Monday,
hard.
The Copper Pot
The pot dwarfed the stove. My ex's brother in law
said his grandfather banged it out
ninety years ago
in Peru, a copper alloy, the old man's name scrawled
on the side. The pot
dwarfed the freaking stove,
enough seafood chowder to feed Pizarro's army,
or in any case Eduardo,
his wife, myself, my ex's
sister, Matt her boyfriend (replacing my buddy Ben),
my daughter and her cousin,
a cilantro-heavy dish,
a burbling green sea of shrimp and octopus
and crab and corn and onions,
and keep the potatoes coming,
whose name in Spanish meant
Bringing Back the Dead,
though I preferred to think of it as Bringing a Little Peace
to Various Warring Factions,
Some No Longer Related.
The pot dwarfed the stove, shaped as it was
like those plastic dishes
they strap on wounded dogs,
its maw a chasm in the Andes, out of which they crawled,
the Incas or their forebears,
the first in those high reaches
to fashion spears of copper, when my ex's family
was young and speared each other
only, long before
skewering hapless gringos became the favorite sport
of the women, long before
the family drifted down
to Lima by the sea, where a young man grabbed a hammer
and made pots of copper
to fill with yummy critters. The pot dwarfed the stove,
its dents and dings and scratches
a kind of cuneiform
speaking of bowed heads
and the kind of soulful grunting
predating any language--
the earliest sort of prayer, shut up,
let’s eat, amen.
©2014 Mark Jackley