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
I
In the hazy beginnings
And endings
Of days
Run,
Blood in these veins
Driven by beat
Mechanical
And beat divine
Subway wall
And station hall
Prophets change
Salvation
To bread
Their words run
Through me
As the drums
Pump youth
Through tunnels
Dying to be young
Steaming
Steel
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
Midnights
Of surrection
Oblivious
To the neon beginnings
And endings
Of days
.
By Jason Anderson
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
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
.
#changebrasil
.
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?
your train pulls
from the late platform
all the souls
and the light of
the lamps
.
by Jason Anderson
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.
.
4:24
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.
.
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