what is a poem is it a call to arms is it a jerk-off session is it a drink or a letter from a sister post-dated a decade ago accusing a dead uncle of rape
what is a poem but a slash of street sharks in the rain a sour armpit odor under the shirt a throb of nonchalance from the apartment below some little towel to wipe up the come
or snot
or blood
why is the poem importance or the painting rote sitting or the standing position and then the lecture which turns into a admonishment which turns into legislature
what is the poem but a leader dragged out of office on fire and let to scream in agony as the people he burned stand idly to watch unless the opposite is true
what is it when my coffee in the morning accompanied by sirens and fireflies and ninja hummingbirds and oranges and tablecloths like a Cezanne escapes the ether by my death
why should my death prove to all the borders of capital the insignificance of the peep the cry the talon of the bird the fang of the wolf of the grizzly the mammoth tusk
the tiny pattering behind your brain, the invisible roach of your desire
what is a poem
I found it in the half-drunk bottle
where the sea reaches the shore
smashed on the rocks
any pitiful plea or request inside lost to the ages
therefore
no need to publish
while beneath the relentless violence of the crashing surf, total silence,
the chaos above just a suicide away from completion
and then
a call to make peace with enormous stupidity
all the great cities, civilization and democracies
falling to the greed of the privileged few
plus the rest of the sins
my death seems so enticing!
I had a good run
fine women and liquors and elixirs and fun shows to watch,
sports in my geography with a good
winning percentage
I'm not a betting man
upstairs ensconced in my aviary I'm lucky
my head spills and throbs
but I'm not dead yet
and can fathom the bridge
without driving across it
what does it matter, I'm banned from renting cars, I can't afford insurance
where is the poem but on your fingertips
a scratch on your ear and seeing peripherally
it's not so bad
what is a poem but a slash of street sharks in the rain a sour armpit odor under the shirt a throb of nonchalance from the apartment below some little towel to wipe up the come
or snot
or blood
why is the poem importance or the painting rote sitting or the standing position and then the lecture which turns into a admonishment which turns into legislature
what is the poem but a leader dragged out of office on fire and let to scream in agony as the people he burned stand idly to watch unless the opposite is true
what is it when my coffee in the morning accompanied by sirens and fireflies and ninja hummingbirds and oranges and tablecloths like a Cezanne escapes the ether by my death
why should my death prove to all the borders of capital the insignificance of the peep the cry the talon of the bird the fang of the wolf of the grizzly the mammoth tusk
the tiny pattering behind your brain, the invisible roach of your desire
what is a poem
I found it in the half-drunk bottle
where the sea reaches the shore
smashed on the rocks
any pitiful plea or request inside lost to the ages
therefore
no need to publish
while beneath the relentless violence of the crashing surf, total silence,
the chaos above just a suicide away from completion
and then
a call to make peace with enormous stupidity
all the great cities, civilization and democracies
falling to the greed of the privileged few
plus the rest of the sins
my death seems so enticing!
I had a good run
fine women and liquors and elixirs and fun shows to watch,
sports in my geography with a good
winning percentage
I'm not a betting man
upstairs ensconced in my aviary I'm lucky
my head spills and throbs
but I'm not dead yet
and can fathom the bridge
without driving across it
what does it matter, I'm banned from renting cars, I can't afford insurance
where is the poem but on your fingertips
a scratch on your ear and seeing peripherally
it's not so bad
Jay Passer's work has appeared in print and online since 1988. He is the author of several chapbooks and has appeared in a bunch of anthologies. His latest collection, Prelude to the Culling, 2020, from Alien Buddha Press, is available at Amazon. is available at Amazon. Passer lives and works in San Francisco, the city of his birth.
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