"jacque" poems
houses so close you can’t have sunlight without voyeurism
but how can one resist this air of night’s invigoration
her thick ankles can be seen through the lifted shade
next to the beer and rumpled magazines on her coffee table
it is 7:30, the kids are in bed, the husband, who knows?
it’s pull-tab night at the corner bar,
he likes that young girl who sells them
flicker, it feels good to sit down
how ironic that my long awaited silence feels so lonely
flicker, maybe if i bought that he would look at me again
flicker, do i even care anymore?
*** is more work than it’s worth sometimes
flicker, Jacque and Lisa keep me company, maybe
i DO want the deluxe faux ruby necklace and earing set
flicker, i wanted to be a ballerina when i was little
my god this house has awfully low ceilings
flicker, all this thinking is making me tired
Oct 2, 2013
Oct 2, 2013 at 1:50 PM UTC
For fifty cents
we bought ten eggs
For fifty cents
we bought a kilo of oranges
For fifty cents
we drunk espresso
in a coffee
across the street
For fifty cents,
at the flea market,
they were selling
at the car hub,
Jacque Prevert’s
- Charmes des Londres…
We bought that too
………………………………………………………………...
*Jacques Prevert wrote “Charmes des Londres” in 1952.
**Grocery list for the market 15.02.2003.
Nov 24, 2017
Nov 24, 2017 at 6:56 AM UTC
The day I learned what it meant to feel nervous,
you spoke my name for the first time.
It was funny, because your voice sounded like the next forty years of my life.
I somehow mustered up the courage that day to talk to you, and learned that your name was Jacque,
my darling Jacque.
While it was the most beautiful name I had ever heard, it somehow sounded incomplete,
like it needed my last name stapled behind it.
It doesn't take much more than knowing each other's names for something beautiful to grow.
I soon learned that your hair smelled like eternity, your skin felt like ecstasy,
and your kiss tasted like everything that forces a smile on my face.
From the first day I learned what it meant to feel nervous,
I fell...
In love with you.
Oct 14, 2013
Oct 14, 2013 at 4:41 PM UTC
I am from noise.
From a womb that was too crowded
and a million hospital wires
In a tiny broken body.
I am from laughter.
From towering Christmas trees and squash soup.
(Bright orange, it tasted like warmth)
I am from music.
From constant choir chants and piano fingers
Scrambling and hurried, excited.
I am from Michelle my Belle
From a full hectic house and gravestones
That never made the cut, no matter how artistic.
I am from a rusty fifteen passenger van.
From Rodgers and Frere Jacque.
Dancing bare feet on the cold white cement.
I am from Roots and Wings
From “that’s my girl!”
And “I’m sorry for your loss”
I am from hot cinnamon skin,
Glistening with sweat.
From a hard day’s work and “If you get better”
I am from squinting eyes and skeptical looks.
From the big oak tree leaves you could touch if you
Reached high enough.
And screams echoing everywhere.
I am from footsteps getting the laundry
From black and white movies that a child
Should never watch.
And gingersnaps with a hint of smoke.
In a black bound notebook,
Covered with crayon marks crazy
Within every lined page are my days I lived
My horizons are laced with uncertainties
I hide them under my pillow
Listen to ghost footsteps
And cradle Sunny to sleep.
Jun 20, 2011
Jun 20, 2011 at 2:47 PM UTC
While the world
And I
Mourn Kobe's passing,
On nearly the same day
Jihadists invaded villages...
West Africa,
Burkina Faso,
Alamou.
Villagers ordered out
Into the open areas
Gunned down,
Slashed,
Murdered.
An attendance question opens,
"What happened in the world?'
Kobe Bryant is gone.
Private helicopter crashed.
The world is on its head.
We hang our heads
In mourning.
Jacque's turn:
"My village was
Attacked Saturday.
Forty people killed.
My wife and children...
There.
The people are fleeing
To the capitol,
Ouagadouga."
[Awkward, this revelation.
How will I ever justify
A week of Edgar Allan Poe?]
We bow to pray.
Jan 27, 2020
Jan 27, 2020 at 11:53 AM UTC