Tangent

Cross-street

road design

imagination folded up

periodic mileage check

waiting at

marble mailbox

planted through

and through

pine and lavender

under water

layers of natural soil

creating compartments, stories

affirming

the surrounding unseen

characters of play

paint by night light

mystery pressure(s)

direct the if

shifted being

discover

the dream map

points where

hydrogen meet

carbon

arriving on time (we hope)

oxygen

arriving

life promises

we wait for the change

soon

we are almost

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This Years Poets

i saw horses

then in neon

i saw horizontal men

thin & gray

built more black

large on stage & the page

this years poets

singular -leg

they keep going

teaching smoke to smell

riding home -made wave

sensuous charcoal

on another -edge

paper like time

radical space men

welcome the buddha

hit the streets

find a past

dig up a riot

dig in fibrous

perceive down

drug boat

Detroit to West Coast

and beyond us

they write “good morning”

very still

w/out “u” -w/we

dead trees shadow cast cod

stop motion mountain effect on out earth

wow

-

8/11/10

for Ron and Mick

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w/ a silver tip
forget paintin’ that bridge
i’m here.
& instead of riding up over &
into my head
i hear bees
while sirens seize
the peace
fuck it
sandbags in my way
pretending they’re not bodies
my dead
city lies in state
i see.
you see

ride on dawg
& smell that
life & death
in the murda cap
still blossoming
something fresh

Jhon Clark

Posted in Jhon Clark, Volume 1 | No Comments »

black and mild teenagers
smoke wine flavor
a .50 cent favor dawg
watch yo bike
got my shank
no thanks
got this lock & chain
not down
around my neck and back
for looking at
good lookin’
suns - out
you see
i see.

round here
men squat down
behind tv’s w/ no pictures
shit, see right threw it
& into a rubber universe
entirely incorporated
tieing it off
& tracking me down
eyes bloodshot, like needles
a mark huh
i see it.
& you see it too cuz

if i’m lying i’m flying & i’m not
i’m riding
right threw
algae green plasma pools
the finest Count
miss, the spring
petals free
i’m over this
bed of magnolias
sheet white – roll out
glide
fan my flame
& at my back – your back
the pavement
dive down, lie there
& stare up & away
still, in the streets
killing me softly
i forget the race
& trace a cloud

Jhon Clark

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dirty-working-hands do and don’t, now.
the news punctured my love line
a hole appeared
and when both eyes opened, they rained
melting everything
left
placed that one, hand over eye
i saw
an irreplaceable friend, again and again
howling
off a warm brick chimney
trying, to climb
onto the full moon
rising up
a detroit pheasnt- caw caws/claws
out of the darkness
encouraging the other(s)
go to the river
let the gulls cry for you
the willow weep
the ice sheets break down.
it’s cold, and i’m thinking, too much
about this long winter-
it’s finally over
spring has arrived
not, in time
in love
of growing, stronger
still-together
flowing through ours
dirty-working-hands.

Jhon Clark
3-30-08
for dave

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poem from being. still

723

     

the pitch of the world around us

     

she says, rest some

turn it off

like my im-pulses

were a radio

     

we should tune

     

walking outside

my house moves

on two legs

there’s a goat

and birds singing

for their supper

     

the world I live in

     

a field of stars

shooting a current

into the earth

raising worms

a song before we’re all eaten

     

a gift

this

acoustic pilgrimage

helps me sleep

holds me

and keeps me, awake

     

enough

to listen

if my sole creative act

were that

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