Late February, Bryant Park

The Zamboni is on the ice

And I think of how much like my writing

Is that glass surface

Through a milky cloud obfuscating

A depth of urgent meaning

In unripe spring

And I want the laughing children

To come out quickly

And skate once more before the thaw


By Jason Anderson


The beat and the blood

4 train at Grand Central 42nd Street


In the hazy beginnings

And endings

Of days


Blood in these veins

Driven by beat


And beat divine

Subway wall

And station hall

Prophets change


To bread

Their words run

Through me

As the drums

Pump youth

Through tunnels

Dying to be young



Souls and bodies

Minds and wits

And dancing feet

Slipping on tile

Spilling hot and red

To the surface

To sacrifice their heat

To wintry breath

Through the veins

I run

The blood

Through hazy beginnings

And neon endings

Of days

To the place

Where the prophets

Fall silent

And all is flesh

And madness

And time’s jealous eye

And the beat

And the bodies

And the youth

Run steaming

Through gutters

Stopped up with

New-fallen snow

Cigarette butts

Nips and buds

And dancing feet

From the moon

They come

These feet to run

In these veins

And spill in

These streets

Driven, dying

By this beat

Through brilliant frozen


Of surrection


To the neon beginnings

And endings

Of days


By Jason Anderson

Age of Enlightenment

Light casts shadows naturally, mediating the material

Ages of enlightenment cast shadows aside, banished

To the past, where we the enlightened find vindication

And the future, when we hope to stand under a higher sun


By Jason Anderson

A Criminal Grammar

The comma of a yoke just light enough

Seems bearable against abrupt sacrifice

To heads worn smooth by idle thought

In balance with truth, justice and the lives

Of students and the dispossessed

A light yoke yet writes the poetry of relief

On young hearts, and social idealism

Which is detained roughly

Criminally tried

Sentences full of abbreviated nouns

And aborted verbs are handed

Down by the upright and shy of sacrifice

While in far-off lands clear-eyed poets

Decry tyranny and the use of semi-colons

In equal measure; they walk free

And pay no fare




By Jason Anderson


The sun gathers in wrinkles on late afternoon sheets

Breeze-scattered energy highlights an intemperate body

A cat grudges to recover a beam


I am not whole nor was I meant

What is not burns for all that is

And spins in the vacuous intermission


This room won’t be sun-filled nor cleared by a wind

Cat and I shift uneasily on empty sheets

One ravenous for flesh

The other stalking an eternal sunbeam


By Jason Anderson



But why does the cat always have to be on my side of the bed?


Main line, Atchison Topeka Santa Fe Rail

your train pulls

from the late platform

all the souls

and the light of

the lamps


by Jason Anderson

Flash poem and a brief word about my favorite subject

No, it’s not another poem about Flash boys and luminous men, although there is potential there. “Flash” just means I wrote this in an instant right after the precipitating event. It’s even time-stamped.



At this black hour

The bird first takes to song

His voice remembering

Bright the dawn


A mea culpa.
Try as I might lately to keep up, I slip behind on reading blogs. Apart from normal everyday (he says, tongue firmly planted in cheek) life and trying to keep writing, I’m scrambling to find a new job, and recently acquired a nasty bug. My doctor assures me it’s just a cold, but drama queen that I am I bought a headstone just in case. I didn’t have them fill in the year of my death, because I’m not a betting man. But I did have an epitaph inscribed:

He lived among heroes

When people talk about me long after I’m gone — maybe even at dinner after the funeral — maybe they’ll have some fun trying to figure out what I meant by that. You see, I don’t generally have a reputation as a rosy optimist. It’s my “Rosebud” moment.

Quick, true story.
I went to a local convenience store yesterday and the kid — ahem, young man — behind the counter was wearing a Captain America t-shirt.

“I like your shirt,” I said.

“Thanks. It’s my roommate’s,” he said with a slight blush. “All my clothes are in the laundry.”

I thought, well isn’t that exactly how you become a hero. Maybe not a superhero, that takes secret government programs, jacked-up spiders or exploding homeworlds. But you get my drift.