-

what can be said
about a library
depopulated of
forbidden books—

when the librarian is
legally prohibited from
conveying information
to anyone about
its contents

?


s jones
2023





.

-

the hands–
they still move

when i was too little
to know what it was,

i slobbered all over it
and knocked it over

daddy would just
wipe it off

check the time

and put it back on
the night stand

—

they still move...



s jones
2023




.

If all of this looks normal
And never once makes you blink
If you ride the tide to whatever side
Flows into group think

If you do all they tell you to
And then ask them for more
If you play their game and all receive the same
Trophy at the door

If you nod in Bobble Head fashion
With their version of the truth
Never stepping off to question
Then maybe you've been brainwashed too

If you scream out heebie-jeebies
When opposite shows it's hand
And instead of calmly asking
It's more of a demand

If you turn blue when you talk green
And all you see is red
If in your realm of tolerance
You wish the other side was dead

If your blindfold covers both heart and head
On what is the gospel truth
The only conclusion there is left
Is maybe you've been brainwashed too

molly
the waitress
at Town diner

wants to be a model
or a nun,
tells me she's a poet

we're sitting on
a couch in her apartment.
molly takes a poem from
a foot high stack
on the end table,
hands me a poem,
"FIRST BRA," by Molly C.
it's about buying
her first bra at 12.
"i was big.
i needed a bra at 11,"
she smiles.

now
she doesn't wear bras.

she tells me
rod mckuen
is the most read
poet
in America.

"what about walt,
plath,
hughes?" i asked.

"no
no,"
she says,
"mckuen is the MOST
popular poet
in American history,
no,
really
the greatest American poet."

molly loves rod mckuen.

i love molly.

"if the public loves
rod mckuen,"
i tell her,
you've got a shot.
you could be the  female version
of rod mckuen."

molly smiles
takes me by the hand
and leads
me up the stairs
to the loft.

she takes the ribbon
from her hair.

i lay her down
on the bed

and bang the hell
out of
the next
most read
American poet

a desire to erase,
to stay away forever.

an opportunity to transfigure,
to sit on the floor and wait for storms.

a line to cross, a lion at dusk,
a catastrophist.

a pen filled with acid,
a book of theories full of holes.

once this begins, there are only endings.