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13.2k · Dec 2014
Woman: Epilogue
Jory Dec 2014
It found you in your home,
Stolen from the mirror
that shows the precious hours

It kept you from sleeping.

It slipped you back into your clothes
and watched you perform
the singular task of putting up
your hair

in silence.

I am Not certain that you were ever here,
because it showed you how to fade
into black and white
with the practiced motion
of your hand;
then finally disappear.

It taught you to walk
in trapping strides,
and to be the skinny girl
who cut off all her hair.

it does not know your name.
It does not care for frivolous
9.8k · Feb 2014
Jory Feb 2014
God had made my hands to sin
though they only undress,
write poetry tender on your thighs,
Gingerly utter words learned
from schoolyards that
I, myself, can not share.

They are a calm defiance,
with beguiling bit of pressure
our palms' purpose becomes Coy,
sultry, creeping into frenzy.
We rejoice in the fever of
our nightly purification rituals.

We break the causes of language.
Retool the hymns
to praise us and shake
our frail lungs from servitude
for the sake of our cascading breaths.
Prayer is only to ourselves.
A current work in progress. This still requires a lot of revision.
Jory Mar 2015
I drew from your lips
a kiss
like a gun from the hip.
and we bled such mysterious blood.
Your body arched into a conduit
of divine magnetism.

And when I saw you,
my darling one,
maybe it was too holy for these eyes
and these hands, and this
crooked tongue.

I think
I was real gone then.
A phantom, something vague,
something obscured
by the wonder of many moments
deftly strung together by
the thin silk of enthrallment.

Or, maybe worse, concealed
by the magic show of happiness.

You were not the first angel I’d seen.
And this is not the final glass I’ll
raise in remembrance.
4.5k · Feb 2014
In the Afternoon
Jory Feb 2014
you stand naked,
tenderly waving a gun.
you kneel beside
the many thin candles,
smother the pages,
and smile, and lay down,
and tell me only to
take the word in vain.

I assess your oddity,
and smile, and sleep.
4.0k · Jan 2014
She Said...
Jory Jan 2014
She said the moon has risen
on avenues of afflicted,
where her sheepish speech
had coaxed me to her claims.

That night is lover's comfort,
the modern hymn of mother,
the mistress of humble,
of fevered saints.

Strong, but with veil of pallor,
she taps her foot to the hours,
while we lapped at our wounds
in her room and hid away.

And in our conversations,
hot breaths and silent exchanges,
We had come to perfection,
as ghosts we had became.

So I slipped into her visions
but her tongue held only admission
that no eye could reveal her,
or truth could set her straight.

And we would waste the hours
amidst bed chambers.
No song of mine could tame her.
We were young.

In all that she had to offer,
no wisdom could have calmed her.
She climbed in the window,
and ghosts we became.
A Song I Wrote.
3.1k · Oct 2012
Jory Oct 2012
I am at the mercy of your hips
I am the thousand dead poets
with nothing to say
in a steel trap of shuttering knees,
at my middle
like the lazy syllable 'T'
in most words that I know
under sung
oh, I ****** up
the lace of your underwear
was like gravel
under the downhill parked car
of my naked edges on you
I am drunk now
and walking home unsatisfied
I try to *******,
but I end up watching the sopranos
******* it,
Jory Oct 2012
Being left handed
has betrayed
my grasp on all of me
Dumb fingered
crossing out words
that don't look right
heavy palmed like
Jeff Dahmer bludgeoned
on a hard wood floor
2.0k · Jan 2015
Nestle into me. Please,
Jory Jan 2015
so that I may learn a gentleness
denied me by portraits of beauty.

so that these hands that I have never really used
may be put to the labor of your body.

and be forgiving of my artistry
for it is trite, and cheap, and callous.

Please, do this one thing
so that I may finally pass into dreaming

because there is nothing more that I want
than to slide away into a deep forget.
From me to you.
1.7k · Jan 2015
The Fool That Sees You
Jory Jan 2015
In the scarce hours you permit,
or between laced fingers
(which is rarer now than ever)
is the fool that carried your name
upon silver tongue
over the gate,
up the back way,
trembling at the chamber door,
or in the thoroughfare.

Is a little boy rend
like your proud tattered gown.
Is a butchers hand rend you,
though lean as you are.

That boy is still here,
clumsy limb and letter.
He doesn't know his place.

probably couldn't if he tried.
Jory Jan 2015
and I would rather be with you
than drifting, bemused, through the infinite gestures
of french women in Montmartre,
or bathing in the afternoon sun of a Maltese shore.
You are a spell of fainting into the estuary of dream,
ten fold the intimacy of Joyce, or *******,
and much less arduous to be sure;
but also just as mad.

Often It seems so ridiculous
for me to compare you to a vast number of things,
except maybe peeling an orange
because you are equally as sultry
and dangerous.
1.5k · Nov 2012
Draft ( Revision I )
Jory Nov 2012
Calm is a Sunday rain
That Comes to your
bed, wide awake,
In the afternoon
With a proffered bot-
-tle of wine
and breath not stressed
Like the May harbor

Talk is a battered stable
Forgotten in west
Montana We explored,
and you broke
your fingers
On a weathered beam
That Strained,
and collapsed
When you climbed to the
roof to be king.
1.5k · Aug 2014
Problem Solving
Jory Aug 2014
If I could change

                                                  ­ *I would...
1.5k · Mar 2015
Jory Mar 2015
Even from behind the porch step,
and through the volition of the rain,
I am certain
the lightning revealed
a curious kiss
in the far
Just something that popped into my head.
1.5k · Apr 2014
The Process
Jory Apr 2014
The first step is the portrait
placed on the dresser,
by the sewing kit and thimbles,
and maybe a couple pens
in case you lose one.
Then quietly *******,
sliding into bed.
Adjusting your toes
against the plush quilt,
and purging your lungs.
When there is total silence,
you can begin to wait.
Jory Mar 2014
what does the well water know?
That holy summit,
or how the storm will weather?
the well water remembers
what the raw material was.

It remembers how the grand orators
broke the language,
retooled the rhythms,
unshackled lungs from servitude.

How they tore the night
with tongue and lyric,
and poetry, and poetry.

It remember black bear jaw,
sun swallowed mountain
river stones, gristle of bark of birch.
The name of the wind and
his deftly sewn leaves

It remember the genesis
of the mothers' milk,
and the manhood.
This is the young country.

And us all pitching coins.
Work In Progress. Just kind of riffing.
1.4k · Mar 2014
Here in the Young Country
Jory Mar 2014
We remember how
her grand orators
broke the language,

retooled the rhythms,
unshackled lungs
from servitude.

How they tore the night
with tongue and lyric,
and poetry, and poetry.

We remember black bear jaw,
sun swallowed mountain,
river stones.

The gristle of bark of birch,
and how to name the wind
with all her deftly sewn leaves.

We remember the genesis
of the mothers' milk,
and the manhood.

The First Love.

This is the young country.
We are drunk on her
and pitching glass.
A revision
1.4k · Jan 2015
Jory Jan 2015
Would it be here, of all places,
that my precluded kinship
find a higher meaning?
And if so, then what is it at all
that some sort of recompense
be made for the multiplicity of my failures?

I would not be found by lamplight,
like some curious drachma: warm
and celebrated.

Only acknowledged, set back
into the mix of various things
that are within your pocket.
Some day recalled, maybe,
but for what I have earned you.

Never for my presence,

So I should leave now
and stare into a thousand bur oaks
that line such a poorly December road
and notice only my reflection.
Though, if I am more bent
than even the lowliest branch,
where would this lead?
Free write.
1.2k · Oct 2012
single drips,
Jory Oct 2012
the Rain comes as one
like collocate palms
on               tin
above us
I once thought
it dawn like,
The grass under
              not now

"i am going to chicago,
       not coming back"

...,  "

                       so I left
Jory Feb 2014
There was a stray dog,
maybe a car ride,
a **** Christmas morning,
some quiet few meals,
daily violence,
walks to work,
or a neglected bottle of milk.

But now there is weapon
extracted from a drawer.
A desk that you sit under.
and read,
“I have learned to draw,
from an arrangement of passions.
1.1k · Apr 2014
For My Friend
Jory Apr 2014
He calls you
Baby Hard Luck,
with cooing verity,
and rests beside
your finely shaved
and naked legs.

The evening
found below the iron belt,
the alley stropped
jeans with a half
pack of reds
tucked in,

and all that
the record

you hope
the song will
never end,
but they are all
your favorite.
1.1k · Dec 2014
Jory Dec 2014
Baby found
a sort of sense, then
headed east
at her own expense.
And when she writes,
she's doing well.
New York’s fine,
at least for now.

the City lights
tripped and fell
into the needles eye
upon the liqueur shelf.

I hope you don't
still hang around
all that bad blood.
but if you need
some kind of proof
would it be all right
to come visit you,
some time?

She works alone
sun or rain.
The piano broke
my sweet Renee.
She never drinks alone
from her window sill,
thoughts racing
but lonesome still

the crystal pines,
she fills the glass.
her songs are pure,
if not a little overcast.

I hope you don't
still toss at night
you're beautiful at least
in someone's eyes.
If you need
some kind of proof
would it be all right
to come visit you

She talks in rhyme
when cinching  her belt.
Says, "New York’s fine
if you're someone else."
Lyrics to a song I wrote
1.0k · Feb 2014
Guide to Good Taste (10w)
Jory Feb 2014
Only **** in the woods.
Only ****** yourself.
Steal Everything.
1.0k · Dec 2014
Shooting Gallery
Jory Dec 2014
If I write to pleasure
would it be mine or some other
formless, wanting, dripping
can't be gratified.

Or should it be mine
In this room.
On this bed.
By this page.

In nowhere dreams
like a thin spider web

on a flickering porch lamp.

Should I even try to?
997 · Apr 2014
A Drinking Problem.
Jory Apr 2014
At night, when I am drinking, I sit at my desk
Sometimes envisioning powerful ships
cutting across the northern rim of the Atlantic,
sheering ice with their breakers on the bow.
When I do, I sometimes write about them
And call it poetry.
988 · Mar 2014
3:29 AM,March
Jory Mar 2014
You were sleeping,
half covered and naked.
You looked tired,
but peaceful and
we had both been drinking.
Capote draped over
the sofa arm,
and the fat snow
beat the window behind
the drawn curtains.
I wanted to shake you
ask the hard questions
why'd you ever go
do a thing like that.
But I didn't.
986 · Oct 2013
I said...
Jory Oct 2013
... That I keep you in the tenderness of morning
Where your stillness is more terrifying,
more gentle and unassuming than all of the
neglected coins in the dresser drawer,
more resilient and defined than the creased
Edge of the holiday cards,
and more humbling than
The shape that my hands take on
When holding your memorabilia.
I catch myself wondering how ever at all
The infinitude of our silent exchanges
Could be reduced into a collection of things,
And that you have charged them somehow
With quality that I stand before baffled.
That maybe my mind is broken in the most suspectable ways,
Or that my unyielding defiance towards benign
Engagements instills such bewildering complexity
into some things we have touched, but that there is,
With out any doubt, an effort to remember you
In small ways or in novelties that bring me to
The same stillness in you.
and in that moment I envision so many ways
that you have affected the world, and myself,
And the objects of this room, but
In the morning light always.
982 · Jan 2014
Jory Jan 2014
I remember Night clasped the Birches,
and Angels' footwork in snow
when we were not afraid of the dark.
I called this Home, so fare thee well.

Down straights, or streets, or weekends,
I had fevers, I had strength in my Hands
that only found themselves curling papers,
and praising the glass for the glory of evenings.
I called this Youth, so fare thee well.

There was a Woman that gave me
the feeble, temperate, and blessed curiosity
of Others that were channeled.
She would creep Naked through the house
as if with a Gun, and find me for kiss,
for welcome, for touch, and fumbling.
to Lay Up, and speak of art
As if our words alone were the wisdom
of some supreme Vision or saint.
I called this Love, so fare thee well.

There were flash, there were bustle and unrolling,
and rewinding of tape, and touche,
and cool resentment for men, and maybe
tears but I can't remember.
It was a bed of medicines, of chalk,
and later flowers that I never saw.
That I will never visit.
I called this growing Older.
979 · Mar 2014
Tender Fish Bones
Jory Mar 2014
God must've made
your hands for twiddling
the drapes. Maybe,
Your ankles gently
rested over top
the chaise, slashing at
the luscious autumn

Our necks clasped
at the nape, cheek pressed
to your breast bone,
casually whispered to
how you burned the house
all the way down
'cause nothing ever
came from it
that's beautiful.

How my mother
vanquished her medicines,
clenched sewing scissors,
and tried to skim me
like her bible.
She said, “I’m sure
there is something under
those tender fish bones.”
and opened me
right up.
The first line is recycled from another poem. I am kind of toying with it.
966 · Feb 2015
Here Was A Heavy Thing
Jory Feb 2015
Who, on the farthest edge of town,
left quietly in the night so many times,
and choking, would revoke her eye
with great determination.

Who, drunken, had fell beneath a willow,
could not regain already wild composure
and so properly burned the thing
all the way down.

Who listened as a knocked apart
meeting of two walls would listen
to the party, so far away,
cloaked by many handshakes.

And thought then that lovers and toys
were boring. Medicine is boring,
and especially art
is boring.

Maybe which was too wise
not to be written in a holy book.
(no one would read it)
But there was a heavy thing
too far away to notice, or mind.
941 · May 2014
When We Are Through
Jory May 2014
We lay just as still
as two paper cranes
by small droplets.

how you have taken
such eloquent forms
must be an act of god,
or maybe just
a slide of hand.

Only because
there is a strong sense
of impermanence,
or complacence

upon what ever expression
you are making to me now.
Quick poem.
933 · Sep 2014
Coeur d'Alene (Humility)
Jory Sep 2014
Singing a familiar song,
she hangs from both legs
on the bars,
sundress fallen to ,
and one hand curled
around a cigarette.
I could see
my own reflection.

Then the tram,
she finds her way
into my coat
and prays for rain
that from the window
it would be like nothing
at all.
a canvas not yet
by an unskilled hand.

And under the pavilion
by the lake
she sprawls out against
the table, says take me
so that I find myself
against her stomach
drawing a figure eight.

I think of her
Started as a free write. Still sort of editing.
929 · Mar 2013
Of everything
Jory Mar 2013
Is a Gust with speckled dew
seething in it: is trinkets
like prayer beads, like
Polaroids in a frittered
shoebox for keeping,
or the way I greet you.
Talking is air rolling
from me, or to,
as I have always known it.

I sought from the wind
and found nothing.
Yet behind me pressing,
press half known
importance, and under
this drifting vessel, I dream
to be untied of it
yet consent to be taken by it.

Not the wafting thistles
of my inverted self
amidst the dew, but
but the nebulous tides
of grandeur that mother, jah,
Samara, late night television,
and father figure(s)
have promised,
as they are the most rigorous
and facile dramatists
of such things.

I sleep, I dream a closed dream,
and find winks of sagacity.
I sleep as though it were a lover
that finds me in the after hours;
or the time before hours.
my being alive, and away,
and stalking the mists.

I sleep in the frayed waltzes
of my own body,
and how (and in) the wind
in rituals, in nostalgia and
closure is talked about.
But there is nothing to it.
909 · Feb 2014
Jory Feb 2014
The city is a slow falling hammer.
We are the absent gods
splitting headaches,
Rolling paper rituals,
puddle jumping,
spitting off rooftops.

The city is a wounded knee
for my friends with heavy hearts.
My friends who cant
stand to be caught sober,
Or talking about it.
No one here is weak.

This Tyrant is a forgotten message.
A prayer hidden in the coming spring.
It is plans for planning to leave,
or make the time pass easy
through the creeping boredom in
each drink for our handsome health.

It is the horror and heft
of my daily habits
under coin, sulking
at the bottom of a well.
An adaptation of a song I had written recently.
908 · Nov 2012
Jory Nov 2012
My bones are subtle
In the way they move me
About the room, and to
Like the high rise Snow berm
By the church
We stood bare foot,
             And naked.

My bones are subtle
In the way they shape me
Feeling this, much like
             The jute Twine that
I am both the fingers
And the spool:
All at once.
887 · Mar 2015
Seeing You There
Jory Mar 2015

is easy
and sometimes casual
like a sundress from one shoulder,
or palms with a cheek perched in
staring from the brasserie awning
during lunch
after the drinks came.


is often paralyzing
like turning an eye
to the mystery of the sea
with it's lurid invitations,
and where many great things
have been carried to
and vanished within.
Or more tragically
they have found something else
on the other side of.


is usually terrible,
because you are so ravishing in yellow,
which is difficult for most people
to be. And more importantly,
Because I know the sea
was not broken
by the many that crossed before,
and the very few who walked away
upon it,

And right now
it is because I look
at you
and you look to the sea.

Work in progress
878 · Oct 2014
Sin II
Jory Oct 2014
That as a poet one is ******
to the mirth of a petty merchant
peddling simple wares to simpler folk
in the smallest corners,
the most hidden corners,
of the most foreign city.

Always dreaming of wealth,
and the big one.
That if only this sacred middle man
could sling his silicious gear
with enough guile and haste

He could transcend the conditions
of the deep alleys,
forever and finally
reaching the grandiose crowds.

It is there that the street fares
are in bloom, popping with mysterious,
and magnificent, and monumental oddities,
and there is no word for abundance,
as each day would provide
for ones deepest
and most primal lust for sweetness.

But it is the foreign city
of back streets and narrow alleys,
**** and bread crumbs,
pigeon ****, sleeplessness,
that breeds such acute
and worthwhile perceptions
which one is compelled enough
to share

and (hopefully)
transcend them.

this is the common dream,
a fools dream,
and it is a fools tongue
which serves to lash
those who dream it,
and those who disobey.

We are all very foolish.
824 · Nov 2015
Jory Nov 2015
I've displayed for you my violence,
with that sweet and curious song.
Don't leave me tied to that olive branch
your dress is hanging from.

I'm certain now, Maria,
in the absence of your touch.
I am only who I am,
not who I was.

Take me to the concert hall,
unsheathe your violin.
Play for me that farewell kiss
that I'm still living in.

I'm terrified, maria,
of your gleaming silver gun.
But we've known for quite a while
what must be done.
Song/Work in Progress
Jory Feb 2015
Such as poetry,
simple song,
silver tongued prayer,
peering from the corner
of the eye,
and finally

the great disappearance
of my likeness
from the city lights.
797 · Aug 2014
Lyrics to a Song of Mine
Jory Aug 2014
I had found you in the crooked heat
of an all night slow dance.
You were unclothed, still traveling
the hard way of a cigarette

You had come as a patron of dark lullabies,
you asked that I join you,
and commit to the abandon
of frail sensibilities.

Your rhythm is a muddled one,
but your body taught.
There are many women like you

but even so,
I only want those who will dance
to Lyrics to a song of mine.
Inspired by the smallest thing accidentally.
796 · Sep 2014
Mulling It Over
Jory Sep 2014
Suppose I should suffer
the obvious intrusions
of a wilting heart;
that my marrow
be rendered empty,
and all things
that should fly
or sing be dull.

Would you have me
at your mercy
on bended knee,
or bruised
by the cause
of a narrow sling,
with the spackled chest
of a battle cry?
Jory Sep 2014
In your shadow
form is transfigured.

In the coming months
I will only sip wine
from the same cup that
cradled my barren bones.

I will not write
until I have something
left to say.
Yes, I know. Q,X,S,M,J

Titled by Leonard Cohen
721 · Jun 2013
The Uncanny
Jory Jun 2013
I am before myself
on heels, and quickly departing
the horror of daily visages.
I am into the night,
where every leaf that is rattled
by the wind aching
for it's own reflection
is mine to embrace,
as my reflection has shown me to.

We, who, out of the pine,
and into the comb of finely
composed and elegant life,
would preach to transcend
our animal likeness. Witnessed,
then we shunt from our selves
when locked eyes with
an ordinary house cat.
720 · Aug 2014
Parlor Tricks
Jory Aug 2014
If you were found only
after midnight,
by ones too gone,
young and wanting...
If you could travel
down the alleys
and empty streets
where great monuments
that you are only passing
weep under such a polished eye
then you will know
I am not here.

If you remembered
all of your heroes,
their likeness foreign
as the distance of heaven,
and you are ******,
and you're not with them,
Then you will know the reasons.

If you had woke to desolation,
not frightened
by it's sight or sound,
then the burning page,
poem, and the question
would transcend the shadows
cast where there is already
so little light.

If you were not deceived
by beauty
for so long, and perfectly,
would I have had you
in the throes of my great
and terrible affection.

If I could travel
down the lightning
of a whisper
to your ear,
would it make a difference?

If you were out for revelation,
this once without the temptations
of high parlor tricks,
would you sink into the bottle
as I have done

and not just in the moments that I appear?
A rewrite of lyrics to a song of mine.
720 · Oct 2012
Night Light
Jory Oct 2012
Not always was
a long fingered man
curt denim jacket
and under
foot of the bed

can't sleep.
crack of the door
under the damp
Jory Apr 2013
We call the night by different names
though it is the same drooping moon
slathered into the sky. Careless and untamed.
on my knees, depraved, and shouting
how could you not understand this?

lifting whiskey glass from tray,
and pouring concessions,
and prior arrangements over each stone,
now that will only serve to batter me
as I swallow myself.
get through to you, I could only shout.
I could only feel so exhausted
by the innumerable times in which
we have traversed the landscapes of a circle.
The ring of a glass, maybe,
or the times in which your parlance
was robbed of it's intention by tongue,
and stutters.

Unfold myself into the night, like paper swans,
like love notes in a calm, sunken eyed stooper
over fire light in the back yard,
and the wafting ascension
of everything you owned in it.

Maybe I over reacted,
maybe an abrasive ******* like
your friends say.
         like I believe.
Maybe you made this.

You have been making this.
669 · Jul 2014
Jory Jul 2014
She collects the loose change
of four evenings,
performs gas lamp ceremonies for
an empire of silk and bone.
It belongs to her.
Says she only wants to
test her hardware.
she comes to me,
takes me by the jeans,
says she is strong.

Says she is a Woman.
630 · Oct 2012
Jory Oct 2012
Spicer beat
my wife in a snowed over
Mountain crevasse
We are all selfish like that
608 · Oct 2012
Jory Oct 2012
I am

not A piece:

of the plot
where. cajoling
trope  {

             don't laugh
I, wasn't

590 · Jul 2016
Jory Jul 2016
I found that checklist you made for me.
maybe in an act of caring, or reflection.

Regardless, in it's agenda, starkly outlined,
was to feel better, lighter heart, abounding laughter.
I wanted to.

It's not so easy, I would like to say.
Maybe it's a crutch. Maybe it's true
that it's not always best to make written vows.

Maybe I loved you in an act of reinvention.
Maybe it's difficult not to feel that you loved me like
impressions of a still life.

Maybe that I found that thing behind the liquor shelf
is a testament to that history.

But surely it's better now that you spend the holidays
with your parents.

Maybe I just like to grapple with the drawls,
nicotine fits, and scathing aspiration.

I don't hide behind lofty language anymore.
Besides, sometimes I don't even know what I meant
in those conundrums and love poems.
Maybe sometimes they meant nothing.

I hope we were more than that, that is,
I hope we were not victims of a more general tendency.

both yours, and mine.
514 · Oct 2012
When It Finally Happens
Jory Oct 2012
Summer will eat my dead body

because it is hard
to write love poems
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