Weight, Loss
A man rides a tandem bicycle
alone. Phantom legs picking
up slack in the back. We are
surrounded by ghosts of our
making perhaps. Perhaps we
are howling only to the great
void.
A woman wakes in the dark
cradle of elm-shade midday.
Around her the sun rains down
violently. She picks up where
she left off. A monologue of
updates to a grave marker of
marble.
I tend to believe in the wilderness
of this life. That longing and love
have index. A mass measurable.
A weight to the Bougainvillea
that draws blood beautifully. And
when we leave we are no longer
heavy.
Cake
In this one he doesn’t drag
his hands down the hallway
wall of the hotel feeling
the insides of every room.
The phantoms don’t dance
up the freeway on-ramp so
needless to say he doesn’t
call attention to them.
In this one the bathroom
door stays unlocked and
his reflection stays intact
and nothing drips or howls.
The street lamps of noctiluca
don’t orbit aggressively toward
something he can’t remember
that he promised he would do.
No.
In this one his hair is fresh
like his father’s lawn and
his suit pressed thin by the
proud hands of his mother.
The car washed with vanilla
cardboard tree dangling.
The Verve CD inserted
and absolutely scratch free.
Actually, in this one they
have a different playlist
completely. Something
simple and more upbeat.
She gets in and he hits
play. The neighborhood
opens up into wild canyons.
They are laughing. Singing.
Ronnie Jackson is a writer living in Oxnard, CA. His work can be found in Flatmancrooked’s Slim Volume of Contemporary Poetics, Litbreak Magazine, Oddball Magazine, Dum Dum Zine & Press and any number of bins and folders squirreled away in various places that no one can get to. He makes a living in the live music and entertainment business but his first passion has always been poetry.