with blue flames rolling
the letters
you have written on various days
of the week,
are schizophrenic on my floor
with blue flames rolling
from all four corners.
don't you get it?
that letters
can't shake my brain
to understand your romance novel ways?
or,
how other men can possibly treat you better?
the men you fuck are made of tracing paper.
I should fly
a plane over your apartment.
drop your letters with
spiders and scorpions
singing a lullaby with your words.
then maybe,
just maybe
I could raise the shades with a smile,
and a hot cup of coffee in hand.
how you move on with new men is beyond me.
the morningside
the morningside
came with arguments
and alcohol
and wide eyes;
him throwing a hard
right into my sissy chest,
followed by a sharp knee
to the chin
that snapped my neck back,
poetic like, into the
sunflower vase.
he went out
slammed the door,
and the walls
quivered like a
dancers legs.
myself in a daze
on the floor,
not knowing you had a man,
you softly spoke:
"good morning dear."
and I breathed in the smell
of eggs and bacon
knowing you were worth it.
Shane Jones:
Is from upstate New York and has had work published in numerous journals in print and online including: The Hold, Pith . . ., Supralurid, The Blue Review, Unlikely Stories, Poems Niederngasse, Crimson Leer, Conspire, Mefisto, Shoes, Happy Hour, )ism(, Sniffy Linings Press, and The Caffeine Addict. He finished 3rd in the Ground Zero Literary Project spring 2000, and has a chapbook of poems - 23 poems - out by Vis-a-Septic Publications.
E-mail Shane at SJones8430@aol.com
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