Before I drag myself into work every morning, I sit in my car in parking lots—the only public places left that don't come with a soundtrack--and read poetry. Currently, I'm into Merrill Gilfillan, Steve Scafidi, Tom Clark and Tom Hennen. My new book of poems is Appalachian Night. It is available from me at no cost: just email firstname.lastname@example.org.
Gail Zappa, RIP
Who ripped lawyers like a pit bull
to protect the value of
her husband's legacy.
The Gail I'm waiting for
will drag me out of the past,
boot me in the ass, instruct me to hear something
new in Willie the Pimp, grin and crack a joke,
then whisper in my ear
of all that I'm still worth.
Purely. It happens.
The days are brown and heavy
as cordwood and you carry the load wherever you go
until you too are made of wood. Let’s say
once you were a tree, making love to the sun.
Your arms were open wide, but grasped nothing,
not the sun, the moon, or the planetary winds.
Whatever lands, lands. And the axe did.
This Poem Won't Save My Life
But I don't want my life.
I want to be a wolf
nosing in the boundless
snows of the page.
©2015 Mark Jackley