top of page

Two poems by Ronnie Jackson



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.

Recent Posts

See All

Two poems by Mckendy Fils-Aimé

sipèstisyon If people say your child is beautiful, your child will become ugly. ok, i confess. once, i said fuck you to danny perkins on the last day of kindergarten after a miserable year of being pu

"Dead Things" by Beth Boylan

I feel compelled to pick up the baby bird that has died just outside my doorstep this morning. Place her in my hand and rub her toothpick ribs with my thumb. Gently kiss the milky-blue bulbs of her ey

Two poems by Daniel Edward Moore

Hey, Future is that you / in the moment / a Buddhist might love / enough to hyperventilate / or the day’s dizzy spin /of 24 hours / kicking joy / to the curbs / of chaos / blessed by Hallmark’s / squa

Kommentarer


bottom of page