i even put on cologne...

WE'RE GLIDING SEAMLESSLY
ONE WITH THE NIGHT SKY
A LESS MENNACING BLACK THAN THE HIGHWAY
EVICERATED BY YELLOW LINES
FOREVER RUNNING THE GAUNTLET
OF ORANGE BARRELS
KEEPING US ALLIGNED
AND BLIND

METALIC MESSANGERS INFORM US
THAT SPEEDING FINES ARE DOUBLED
ADDICTION IS INESCAPABLE
AND THE TOLL BOOTH AHEAD
ONLY ACCEPTS CASH
AND NEW YEARS RESOLUTIONS

THE BOOTH MAN GRINS
A MORE LIVELY AND
GENUINE GRIN THAN USUAL
AND TELLS ME
THAT I REMIND HIM OF MY MOTHER
WHO PASSED THROUGH HERE YEARS AGO

_Jackson grind

________________________________________________

I wake up. I wish it was dawn, but it’s late in the afternoon. A nurse is wiping sweat from her brow from last night’s full-moon bombardment. I’m sitting up, my eyes still not ready for what sunlight still remains. Sometimes I wish there were cactus outside my window instead of pine or spruce. The intangible Midwest haunting my travelers mind. I earn my existence by blending in. I’m often reassured of this when I think about someone writing a book about my life; a mountain of menial tasks followed by an uncanny amount of walking. It’d be an easy read though, the kind you could float through like the dotted lines of a composer’s wand, gracefully swaggering like a cowboy whose spurs never got caught in bramble or tore a young home-makers mini-skirt. Lets not forget the sea though, whose waves go unnoticed in every setting sun. And when the tide finally recedes I hope I’m sipping a cold beer somewhere with my back turned.

_Virgil Cross

no smoking alarms

to some

self actualization comes
in two colors
silver and black

desperation comes
with two lovers
who never call back

the auspicious hem
of that auburn skirt
comes with ovulation
and the territory

_jackson grind

what's beef

i woke up with the sun

and the east filed for divorce

defiled by the courts
she returned to me

war torn

forlorn

and wondered what it took

to give angels bed head

_jackson grind

I guess

Spotted!
By Jackson Grind


Hiding behind half hearted handshakes
resperating botanicals
and wondering when this liquid
crosses the line, into confidence
convoluted
weaving words into
quarter-witted remarks
Inhaling the season's end
exhaling feelings of last year
there's the constant reminder
not glance over one's shoulder
or into the past
lest they gaze
on your vaguely familiar face
“The sky is yearning for your hands
lay the pen on the ground
the vines of clever justice
have you surrounded,
oh, poignant poetaster!”

wilting

I'm blindly tapping my way
in and out of the forest
of essence of self
and vanilla extract
scented humanity

color coded confusion
callous
contrived
commercialize me
install a cornerstone
or support beams

there is someting i'd like to say
an emotion i'd like to feel
but the mornings around here
are so, so foggy

let me watch

Ring the Buzzer
by Jackson Grind

i always arrive with an entourage
of wise men
who converse only of compromised morals
and sexual undertones
and ask "what else is there to speak of?"

women who accessorize
with neon bags
and empty glasses frames
swallow my pride
and indulge the vanity
which i choke down for every meal
and chase with something stiff
on the rocks

i exit through a trap door
to suit my idiom
and the angel on my shoulder
hasn't paid rent in years

we think so

stuck inside instability,
marching a broken path.
accept theres no way out
and it won't help to ask.
you've got to learn this on your own
but when you finally come to comprehend,
please understand,
the rules of the game grow more complicated.

break down the heartache.
build your own tragedy.

so do the numbers, build yourself a home.
find a wife and leave her all alone.
she'll make you dinner and wash your clothes.
and drown her sister with sobs over the telephone.
trap her with lost looks and dresses.
let her build herself these broken ledges
to stand upon all afternoon
neglect sinched tight like a noose.
all it takes is one slight of foot.
will she jump or will you push?
regardless, a real man would follow.

break down the heartache.
build your own tragedy.

_william j toburn