Jack Henry

 

jck hnry lives in the high desert of SE California within spitting distance of the SALTON SEA in a single-wide at a trailer park called, Shady Acres Paradise Park. jck works part-time as Mayor of the unincorporated town of Toad Suck, Sanitation Engineer, and weekend night bouncer at Lupita's Grindhouse. in off hours jck writes poetry that has appeared in a number of places on-line and in-print.  he also has a few chapbooks floating around including: The Downtown Cafe from Erbacce Press (www.erbacce-press.com), Empty Houses (KSE Publications), Snow in Summer and the Playground is Closed (Scars Publications) and upcoming, Crunked (Epic Rites Press, www.epicrites.org). jck's debut collection, with the patience of monuments, appears on NeoPoiesis Press in Autumn 2009. for the curious more can be found at www.jackhenry.wordpress.com.

 

in search of language

 

i saw a butterfly
            today
in my garden
as i raked leaves
from a patch
of brown dirt
underneath
a pepper tree -

black and yellow wings
a monarch, i think -
i used to know,
but those days
feel old and lost -
it follows my step,
as if watching,
as if wondering -
curious of me
as i am of it -

he or she,
more questions than answers -
what               

            does it want?
where            

            is it going?

under the tree
i work leaves
into small piles -
rake trails
etch dirt -
pictures of a sun
drawn

            by small children -

the butterfly does not leave me,
does not move on -
it stays
on the dirt,
on a branch,
atop a blade of grass
            that
                        aches
                                    s l o w l y
d
o

w

n

from
simple weight

butterflies do not live long -
            not in August
            not in the high desert
it is
an unusual sight -

in a puddle of mud

it lingers
and i kneel down
for conversation
about:
            winter in        
            Constantinople -
            wars of Julius Caesar -
            Roman crosses on hilltops
            overlook cities
            just before
            their dying -

life
a struggle -
a butterfly's
caterpillar
and chrysalis
rebirth salvation -
a chance
            to fly -

this storm
will blow over,
i think -
gray clouds
compelled
by northerly
winds,
soon to depart -

my bucket is full,
it should be emptied -
the rake put away -
the butterfly gone -

so soon, i think
with so much more
            yet to say

 

 

 

---

 

exuberance of youth

 

i grew up poor
not knowing poor
            we all did

            i guess

my neighborhood
- small
- insular
- insufferable [most likely]
we told stories, lies
and played baseball
until blisters
became representation
of our innermost secrets -

thin streets,
no better than one-way
[more like dead-end]
infatuations
within the garden
of good and evil
took root

each day
we watched the sky travel -
trade colors
with the wind -
prayed on the footstep of Christ -
communion,
saints and sinners
and memories
of Eddie Haskel

when rain came,
            we knew mud -
when the heat
turned clay to stone,
            we knew shade -
when Mormons marched
down Foothill Boulevard,
            we gathered stones -
when fathers smoked cigarettes,
gathered at the step of our drive,
told grave stories of war and sorrow,
            we did our best to stay quiet

            but pulse of fresh-made blood
            drove us to the brink
            of insanity
yet
offered us salvation
and left us
eager for
every

f u c k i n g

breath

 

 

 

---

 

 

perfect earth 

 

she said,

  good girls don’t do that
and i smiled,

  but you are not a good girl, in that sense

  there is that,

she said

crowded streets swallow us
i can barely breath
wet heat lay atop my skin
bruised my ambition but not my need

nothing seems to touch, especially the sky

 

  i don’t know if we should,

she said
  but we’ve already done it twice,

i said
  i want to,

she said

  i know…

 

we met the night before, by accident [it would seem]
my host abandoned me

for an 18 year old cigarette girl
with Bambi eyes and shiny teeth
alone from my corner i watched boxers and dancers
move with equal precision

 

her skin

the color of perfect earth
rich and full, eager to blossom, to stretch, to yearn
eyes that watch my every step, knowing the
conclusion before i begin

 

i pull her into a doorway and kiss her
  we don’t do that here,

she said
  of course you do, i’m not naïve,

i said

 

my hands move down her back, never
leaving smooth skin, her flesh cool
against a rising sun

  this isn’t love,

she said,

  it’s just the moment

  let’s not waste it,

i said

 

a television hums in the background

unwashed children play in dirty streets,

sounds of electric rickshaws and
motorbikes cough through my window – a ceiling fan
complains every fifth turn – an elegant sky turns vermilion -
there are oranges in a bowl on a table near a train station -
nothing but static on a fifty year old radio -
i am languid in a pool of sheets – a soft breeze drifts across
the Ganges – she left a note sprayed in delicate perfection,
i leave it sealed and settled and head for the door

 

 

---

 

i could apologize

 

i could apologize

but i won’t

i could tell the truth

but i need

            a nap

i could quit snorting speed

but real time

            is too vague

i could pay for sex

but there’s no check

            in my mailbox

i could sing

but my voice

            betrayed us all

i could find hope

but every rock is

            overturned

i could promise

but where would that get us?

 

i could resume my proper direction

but, well... there’s nothing clever here to say

i could dance

but my feet are locked in stone

i could fly

but my dealer’s out of town

i could register at college

but my tears hurt

            when i sneeze

i could laugh

but that seems pointless

i could stand

but my back has too many holes

 

i could write something brilliant

but i never did before

i could leave

but my home is

            a garbage can

i could whisper something delicate

but my tongue is a mule’s

i could steal back those married years

but where would that get us?

i could live in the moment

but this moment's a stain

i could go to rehab

but i failed that once before

i could stop before i started

but a fool never slows

i could believe in Christianity

but my skin melts in the sun

i could dream

but sleep is

            chemically altered

i could do something better

but my glass is empty

            now

 

 

 

---

 

 

the distance of revelation

 

a starving starling

stands...

 

a starving starling

stands

at the edge

            of an elegant tide

at the edge

            of eternal departure

at the edge

            of

                        all this

 

a starving starling

stands and stares

and looks down

from its righteous perch

high

            in a green tree

                        a pine tree

                        a forever tree

                        a tree that bears no fruit

            no solace

            little shade

and branches that scratch windows

  scare children

  force memories

  break silences

 

some say poetry is dead

some say cyber space killed it

some say el chupracabra eats goats

            in the hills of Mexico

some say America is still free

 

little birds gather

around pools of gray water

            as it bubbles up from

            a broken sewer line

they dance and chitter

alone in their cadence

they divine the ghosts

of past and present

the yet to be

 

a starving starling

lingers

looks down

looks away

wonders

ponders

consumed in thought

consumed by humanity

consumed by the precious

lift of feathered wings

 

and flies,

 

just flies

leaving us and you

and me

and all here today

all present and accounted for

all stamped and pressed and lined up in proper order

lifts and flies

and departs

and thinks

of nothing

more

 

than that blankness

of space

between

here

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

and

there