Po-poetry
I thought I was out
of poems and sat down
in Dewey’s with a cup
of ivory mocha to
contemplate how to break
it to my co-authors
when a cop came in
pointed at the ceramic
elephant tip jar
and said, “I told you
you need to get a pig.
I’ll even give you double
tips if you put a sign
on it that says
Feed the Pig.”
We laughed and he said, “Hey
I do all the stereotypical
things police officers do.
I even eat donuts.”
Then he took his coffee
and walked out giving
us a final exhortation:
“Maybe you can
find a pig on eBay.”
I grunted
pleased
and there
was poetry.
~ Jesus Crisis
Jail & the General Store
Los Angeles, California
Of scratch, the waiting still minstrels,
the yellow faced white faced black red blues.
Much nothing like China on an open, open road: kissing.
Much nothing like one cat—a tabby tom w/lick—
playing the music of rings w/o fingers on the face…
playing w/o strangers or children of death halving the morrow.
One cat, man, a tabby tom walking on legs of the moon:
open at the legs—belly up & cut open—hitching on the side of the road.
A tabby tom too hip in the upbeat lip of these angle-beaded quipsters
we call jazz to give a damn about nothing that breathes into bronze.
The nothing that is; the nothing that will always be empty.
It’s Dixieland on down to the backbone of your shoe.
It’s Dixieland & the horns expound a mischievous syncopation.
It’s Dixieland waiting to untie the knots.
Let the all be got until you’re had by the blue horn.
One cat, man, & the hat is on your godhead.
One head, man, & your sandal’s empty
cause nothing manifests on cue when beatitude is missing you—
or always to be remembering beat is out w/the personal trash.
One bowler shy of thin, one all, one over, again,
countering the argument, eating the question, testing what matters.
~ Adam Brodsky