jj-hutton - Hello Poetry

When they started inching their way forward, that row of men in deep blue, riot shields ready, batons ready, I couldn't help but love them. I was never narcissistic, at least not enough to think I'd see the end of the world. But there I was, corner of Bedlam and Squalor. Corinthian columns eroded. Bars on the windows, but I can assure you they didn't barricade the door. The chant that carried us downtown, grew heavy, dragged to a dirge. My heartbeat was my brother's next to me. My song was my sister's next to me. And the riot shields approached, and I could appreciate how well they held a line. There's a swell of panic from behind. One, two, three children screamed. The rubber bullet, what a marvelous concept. Tear gas, effective. And the blurry men with blurry shields and blurry batons broke from their line and rushed. Love can be heavy. I dominate. I submit. A baton crushed against my jaw and I found myself on my back, looking up. The chant was a dirge was a scream was a ringing in my ears. And I found myself on my back, looking up. A news helicopter steadied in the sky. The old men watching my blood run live were my fathers. The old women watching my blood run live were glad not to be my mothers. I know we disagree, I said, as they kicked my ribs. I think we should disagree.

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May 23, 2022

May 23, 2022 at 11:53 AM UTC

News at Six

When they started inching their way forward, that row of men in deep blue, riot shields ready, batons ready, I couldn't help but love them. I was never narcissistic, at least not enough to think I'd see the end of the world. But there I was, corner of Bedlam and Squalor. Corinthian columns eroded. Bars on the windows, but I can assure you they didn't barricade the door. The chant that carried us downtown, grew heavy, dragged to a dirge. My heartbeat was my brother's next to me. My song was my sister's next to me. And the riot shields approached, and I could appreciate how well they held a line. There's a swell of panic from behind. One, two, three children screamed. The rubber bullet, what a marvelous concept. Tear gas, effective. And the blurry men with blurry shields and blurry batons broke from their line and rushed. Love can be heavy. I dominate. I submit. A baton crushed against my jaw and I found myself on my back, looking up. The chant was a dirge was a scream was a ringing in my ears. And I found myself on my back, looking up. A news helicopter steadied in the sky. The old men watching my blood run live were my fathers. The old women watching my blood run live were glad not to be my mothers. I know we disagree, I said, as they kicked my ribs. I think we should disagree.

33

Julia, at her desk and on her telephone, trapped in amber, an eye-open slumber. The president shuffles past, talking quietly with solemn men in muted storm cloud suits and sunshined shoes. The board room fills with tombstone grins, the bottom line growing heavy, coming undone. Julia, at her desk and staring at an emerald fingernail reflection. She's older now, the light dim. She dreams of boulders, of butchers, of bushy-haired children running amuck as the bottom line bottoms out. What do kids watch on Saturday mornings? The president asks behind a closed door. Kids today, someone says. It wasn't this way when I was a kid, someone says. I remember watching tv on Saturday mornings, someone says. Julia, at her desk and covered in gasoline, suspended in violent ideation as a motivational quote hangs itself above her head. About, aboard, above, we use to say in school, the president says behind a closed door.

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Dec 9, 2021

Dec 9, 2021 at 5:01 PM UTC

The Administrative Assistant

Julia, at her desk and on her telephone, trapped in amber, an eye-open slumber. The president shuffles past, talking quietly with solemn men in muted storm cloud suits and sunshined shoes. The board room fills with tombstone grins, the bottom line growing heavy, coming undone. Julia, at her desk and staring at an emerald fingernail reflection. She's older now, the light dim. She dreams of boulders, of butchers, of bushy-haired children running amuck as the bottom line bottoms out. What do kids watch on Saturday mornings? The president asks behind a closed door. Kids today, someone says. It wasn't this way when I was a kid, someone says. I remember watching tv on Saturday mornings, someone says. Julia, at her desk and covered in gasoline, suspended in violent ideation as a motivational quote hangs itself above her head. About, aboard, above, we use to say in school, the president says behind a closed door.

25

Champagne slacks, barn brown plaid patterned down a watch that tells the time, the temperature (sunny and 75), and the number of suitors on read. The blouse is smart, the woman is mousey. She tells and re-tells her employees the secret to success is listening. Between emails to accounts payable, she stares into middle distance, she pretends to stare into middle distance, she pretends to flashback, she flashes back for her team, her team watches her through the glass windows of her office, they're always watching. The floor plan is open. We should all be more open, she often says during interdepartmental collaboration meetings. On Monday, Wednesday and Friday nights she opens herself like a letter, while the blue glow from her phone lights her face, a concession, a weakness, but is it a weakness if it's scheduled? If it's ritual? And love is a powerful thing (if it's withheld). And empathy will take you far (if it's weaponized). And life is beautiful (from the corner office).

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Sep 7, 2021

Sep 7, 2021 at 12:30 PM UTC

The Latte as Accessory

Champagne slacks, barn brown plaid patterned down a watch that tells the time, the temperature (sunny and 75), and the number of suitors on read. The blouse is smart, the woman is mousey. She tells and re-tells her employees the secret to success is listening. Between emails to accounts payable, she stares into middle distance, she pretends to stare into middle distance, she pretends to flashback, she flashes back for her team, her team watches her through the glass windows of her office, they're always watching. The floor plan is open. We should all be more open, she often says during interdepartmental collaboration meetings. On Monday, Wednesday and Friday nights she opens herself like a letter, while the blue glow from her phone lights her face, a concession, a weakness, but is it a weakness if it's scheduled? If it's ritual? And love is a powerful thing (if it's withheld). And empathy will take you far (if it's weaponized). And life is beautiful (from the corner office).

3

The morning, good; the morning, relentless—she tip-toes out the front door in her ex-husband's brown patent leather shoes. Outside. Walking again. On her own two feet but not in her own two shoes. It's a Monday. It's an autumn. It's a neighborhood with tricycles strewn in front lawns, with spent confetti in the gutters, with Japanese trees, with Greek columns, with the reliable sound of the working class commute in the distance. The shoes, four sizes too big, nearly slip as she half saunters, half staggers on her way to the bakery on Bellevue. She's hungry for predetermined conversation, an exchange between a patron and a cashier. There's a young boy playing with a water hose. He waves enthusiastically. She matches it with a wave of her own as she passes by. The boy turns away, runs toward his home. She feels self-conscious and there's something in the pocket of her ex-husbands linen suit jacket, a bottle of cologne. The door chimes as she walks into the bakery. The cashier says good morning before looking at her. The cashier's eyes quickly scan her and dart away. She's a child in her ex-husbands clothes. She orders a coffee. She asks for a Splenda packet. "I like my coffee like I like my women," she says. "Hot and artificially sweet." Pity laugh. Nervous laugh, maybe. It's not even her joke. He tells her the price. She hands him the money. Thank you. No, thank you. She sits alone by a window. She's an alien doing normal people things. She's tired and whatever spark got her out the door may not get her home. A man seated at the table behind her sneezes once, twice, three times. "I'm sorry," he says. "I think I'm allergic to your perfume." "Me too," she says.

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Aug 31, 2020

Aug 31, 2020 at 12:54 PM UTC

Corsican Blackcurrant

The morning, good; the morning, relentless—she tip-toes out the front door in her ex-husband's brown patent leather shoes. Outside. Walking again. On her own two feet but not in her own two shoes. It's a Monday. It's an autumn. It's a neighborhood with tricycles strewn in front lawns, with spent confetti in the gutters, with Japanese trees, with Greek columns, with the reliable sound of the working class commute in the distance. The shoes, four sizes too big, nearly slip as she half saunters, half staggers on her way to the bakery on Bellevue. She's hungry for predetermined conversation, an exchange between a patron and a cashier. There's a young boy playing with a water hose. He waves enthusiastically. She matches it with a wave of her own as she passes by. The boy turns away, runs toward his home. She feels self-conscious and there's something in the pocket of her ex-husbands linen suit jacket, a bottle of cologne. The door chimes as she walks into the bakery. The cashier says good morning before looking at her. The cashier's eyes quickly scan her and dart away. She's a child in her ex-husbands clothes. She orders a coffee. She asks for a Splenda packet. "I like my coffee like I like my women," she says. "Hot and artificially sweet." Pity laugh. Nervous laugh, maybe. It's not even her joke. He tells her the price. She hands him the money. Thank you. No, thank you. She sits alone by a window. She's an alien doing normal people things. She's tired and whatever spark got her out the door may not get her home. A man seated at the table behind her sneezes once, twice, three times. "I'm sorry," he says. "I think I'm allergic to your perfume." "Me too," she says.

12

I've been watching the ants. It's August and I sleep in the afternoons. I'm single. I haven't showered in two days. The smoke from the incense drifts. I **** it down like a good myth. And the ants are there, on my desk, scurrying back to their homes with a few bread crumbs in tow. I talk to myself after lunch. "Let me show you to your bed." And I bury my head in the comforter and the ants are feasting and outside there's a pandemic going on and I read about a man with a one-point-five million-dollar hospital bill and I heard they've been sending direct deposits to the dead and something crawls along my leg and how did nag champa become the default incense and I'm single and my heart is curdled and my mom calls to ask if I've found anyone to make it whole but I tell her I better grab a few winks--it is the late afternoon-- but before I go, how about an update? My dad fought cancer last winter and we didn't really talk about it and I kept thinking of the word leisure and everything got empty and a little bit terrible and a leisure suit is nothing, nothing to be proud of, and they gave my dad a numbered chip and they let him ring a bell and he said a few words and I wanted to be there, really there, you know? But I knew it'd just be a moment until the sun got stranded on its way to set, and I'd see my shadow and burrow into this bed with a nag champa halo and a few mumbled words to commemorate day 153 of quarantine.

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Aug 6, 2020

Aug 6, 2020 at 3:17 PM UTC

Nag Champa

I've been watching the ants. It's August and I sleep in the afternoons. I'm single. I haven't showered in two days. The smoke from the incense drifts. I **** it down like a good myth. And the ants are there, on my desk, scurrying back to their homes with a few bread crumbs in tow. I talk to myself after lunch. "Let me show you to your bed." And I bury my head in the comforter and the ants are feasting and outside there's a pandemic going on and I read about a man with a one-point-five million-dollar hospital bill and I heard they've been sending direct deposits to the dead and something crawls along my leg and how did nag champa become the default incense and I'm single and my heart is curdled and my mom calls to ask if I've found anyone to make it whole but I tell her I better grab a few winks--it is the late afternoon-- but before I go, how about an update? My dad fought cancer last winter and we didn't really talk about it and I kept thinking of the word leisure and everything got empty and a little bit terrible and a leisure suit is nothing, nothing to be proud of, and they gave my dad a numbered chip and they let him ring a bell and he said a few words and I wanted to be there, really there, you know? But I knew it'd just be a moment until the sun got stranded on its way to set, and I'd see my shadow and burrow into this bed with a nag champa halo and a few mumbled words to commemorate day 153 of quarantine.

49

You just sit there, right there, and watch. I'll collect the debris, out of sight, out of Mind your manners when I give you a piece of my Mind scattered, adrift, wanting. You just want somebody to Love yourself, above all things love Yourself, get yourself a self-help book. You can't help Yourself, in miss-matched socks, keeping regular office Hours go by and the data won't enter itself. Nobody's Perfect the ritual, the treadmill at lunch, the dry shampoo Tears in the breakroom sink and loose lips sink Ships anywhere in two business days, a total modern Marvel at how a network television show can still make you Cry freedom and throw half a brick through the Window to your soul; in this moment, a penny for your Thoughts shattered, amiss, stunting. You just need somebody to Love me, above all things love me.

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Jan 28, 2020

Jan 28, 2020 at 3:28 PM UTC

Afterward from Our Sponsors

You just sit there, right there, and watch. I'll collect the debris, out of sight, out of Mind your manners when I give you a piece of my Mind scattered, adrift, wanting. You just want somebody to Love yourself, above all things love Yourself, get yourself a self-help book. You can't help Yourself, in miss-matched socks, keeping regular office Hours go by and the data won't enter itself. Nobody's Perfect the ritual, the treadmill at lunch, the dry shampoo Tears in the breakroom sink and loose lips sink Ships anywhere in two business days, a total modern Marvel at how a network television show can still make you Cry freedom and throw half a brick through the Window to your soul; in this moment, a penny for your Thoughts shattered, amiss, stunting. You just need somebody to Love me, above all things love me.

16

I said what I needed to say. Say it backwards, breathe it undone before the red of the taillights before the blue of the ink before I'm severed by a message on the bottom of a grocery list. I said what I needed to say. Now I need you to misremember, blur it, the wind in your auburn hair before you pack the eyeliner before you pack the cotton swabs before I'm cornered in an empty room by the sweater you left. I said what I needed to say. I don't need to say it again, don't need you to see me like this after our shows cancel and rerun after the good habits transfigure into bad after the last bulb goes out and I follow the fireflies out the backdoor, hair unwashed, pants unclean.

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Jan 14, 2020

Jan 14, 2020 at 12:55 PM UTC

Summoner in Sweat Pants

I said what I needed to say. Say it backwards, breathe it undone before the red of the taillights before the blue of the ink before I'm severed by a message on the bottom of a grocery list. I said what I needed to say. Now I need you to misremember, blur it, the wind in your auburn hair before you pack the eyeliner before you pack the cotton swabs before I'm cornered in an empty room by the sweater you left. I said what I needed to say. I don't need to say it again, don't need you to see me like this after our shows cancel and rerun after the good habits transfigure into bad after the last bulb goes out and I follow the fireflies out the backdoor, hair unwashed, pants unclean.

24

On our way home rain along passenger windowpane after party still stirring me, blurring me our flesh melds leather rolling stop gasoline haze and your finger is in my mouth adore you a dumb animal for you over the railroad tracks and you're vibrating, I'm transforming, the steering wheel spinning need you supine and suggestive smoking my vices, the only things I'd give my vices up are my vices the sun can wait the sun can obscure dwell indulge imprison please

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Sep 3, 2019

Sep 3, 2019 at 11:50 AM UTC

Life as a Luxury Car Commercial

On our way home rain along passenger windowpane after party still stirring me, blurring me our flesh melds leather rolling stop gasoline haze and your finger is in my mouth adore you a dumb animal for you over the railroad tracks and you're vibrating, I'm transforming, the steering wheel spinning need you supine and suggestive smoking my vices, the only things I'd give my vices up are my vices the sun can wait the sun can obscure dwell indulge imprison please

19

Karin, in my t-shirt, standing eternal in the doorframe, saddle-stitching the smell of juniper with the gentle caress of her damp hair, plucked white, shaved clean and there's music, it's a Saturday, there's a wind careening through the pines, a steady rain picking at the windowsill, and I want to hold time, to dissipate its march, to let the love between us linger, to indulge the soft pang of desire indefinitely, to eek out of my borders, to blend, to float above my body, above Karin, to see it all with such clarity, to return to form, to bend, to worship, to stay, to stay in this small room, to stay in this twin bed, tangled, poor, blissed out, cherished, tethered.

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Aug 16, 2019

Aug 16, 2019 at 11:20 AM UTC

A Saturday in October

Karin, in my t-shirt, standing eternal in the doorframe, saddle-stitching the smell of juniper with the gentle caress of her damp hair, plucked white, shaved clean and there's music, it's a Saturday, there's a wind careening through the pines, a steady rain picking at the windowsill, and I want to hold time, to dissipate its march, to let the love between us linger, to indulge the soft pang of desire indefinitely, to eek out of my borders, to blend, to float above my body, above Karin, to see it all with such clarity, to return to form, to bend, to worship, to stay, to stay in this small room, to stay in this twin bed, tangled, poor, blissed out, cherished, tethered.

21

You pose him, your child, with the dog, the puppy, the one your wife insisted you buy for him, your child, your only son. You stand back. Your wife counts down from three. Your child smiles in such an unnatural way like he learned to do it from an instructional manual. Something about this unnerves you. The posing. The stilted smile. You made this child, your only son, and he's five feet removed from you and his face is unnatural, a caricature of joy. The puppy barks once. It echoes in the small living room, and you can't help but think of this photo as a marker, another tangible step closer to your own death. Wait. You reframe. You say this is a moment. This is something to cherish. This is something to look back on. Your wife says good boy and scratches the puppy behind the ears. She kisses your child, your only son, on the forehead. But, of course, one day this dog will die. With any luck, you, your wife, and your only son will live to see this day and this moment will reemerge and your wife will say he was a good boy and your son will say he was so small and you'll feel this same dread -- the posing, the stilted smile -- you'll feel it all fresh. How many tiny tragedies can a man anticipate? How many tiny tragedies can a man endure?

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Aug 6, 2019

Aug 6, 2019 at 3:03 PM UTC

Dead Dog Two

You pose him, your child, with the dog, the puppy, the one your wife insisted you buy for him, your child, your only son. You stand back. Your wife counts down from three. Your child smiles in such an unnatural way like he learned to do it from an instructional manual. Something about this unnerves you. The posing. The stilted smile. You made this child, your only son, and he's five feet removed from you and his face is unnatural, a caricature of joy. The puppy barks once. It echoes in the small living room, and you can't help but think of this photo as a marker, another tangible step closer to your own death. Wait. You reframe. You say this is a moment. This is something to cherish. This is something to look back on. Your wife says good boy and scratches the puppy behind the ears. She kisses your child, your only son, on the forehead. But, of course, one day this dog will die. With any luck, you, your wife, and your only son will live to see this day and this moment will reemerge and your wife will say he was a good boy and your son will say he was so small and you'll feel this same dread -- the posing, the stilted smile -- you'll feel it all fresh. How many tiny tragedies can a man anticipate? How many tiny tragedies can a man endure?

20