david jewell poet

words. photos. images. whatnot.

A Slight Misunderstanding

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.

Crow was eating Scarecrow’s brain.
Scarecrow didn’t care.
He didn’t have a brain.
He was a big stuffed mannequin without
a feeling anywhere.
Or, so they thought.

Enough time standing in a cornfield,
watching the sun rise and set,
watching the stars wheel above,
will change anyone.

Eventually, surprising them both, Scarecrow said,
“Crow. What are you doing?”

Crow froze.
Then ruffled his feathers, and said,
“So. That’s why they call you Scarecrow––
you don’t even know if you’re here, or
if you’re not.”
And then,
Crow flew away.

shadow party

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.
I invited my Shadow over for tea–-

it showed up late

and said it preferred whiskey.

I opened my closet and let the skeletons out––

they were happy to have the tea––

although some of them preferred the whiskey,

and quite a few of them wanted to smoke.

 

.
.

time

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time was too tired to turn one day
time was too tired to keep moving.

like a broken sunset on a torn page
in a lost land. time thought it didn’t matter.

time was thirsty and hungry and wanted
to rest. to stop. to stop. and think.

but time had nothing to think about.
it was everything all at once.

time was angry. why should it keep going.
why should it turn and turn so relentlessly.

would anyone notice its steadiness.
would anyone notice it quit.

mr. bones stood up in the bottom of the gulch.
he held up his had and made a circling motion.

crow came down from the sky and landed on
mr. bones index finger. they stared at each other.

without time, there was nothing, not even air.
that was the first time that time did not exist.

impossible ice cream

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impossible ice cream shadow meltng down the back of her neck.
I’m sitting at a table beginnig to evaporate and ruminating over my
past ten years as a razor monkey for the ockham gang, feeling it might be
time for a change, and she with her glitter lipstick and underwater know how
seems the perfect candidate to distract me away from my craving for that
maserati, I think it is the trident as beheld by Neptune on the steering wheel
and hubcaps of the sleek machine that makes me delirious with imagined speed
and power. Faster and faster by the minute and the hour. But it is near sunset
and I’m slowing down now, slurring words, in fact can hardly move more than
about 3 frames a second and I reach out to tap her shoulder as the ice cream
finds the center of her spine and she shutters so delightfully just before she
squels and gets up to use the pay phone.

nectar

no comment

.
nectar dewdrop twang twang

her luscious lips prounouncing syllables in another language. . .

she must be speaking gun powder––

fireworks going off in my mind. . . lighting up images of

silky scarlet trance. . .

little humming bird

little swallow tail

excuse me

my optic nerve is ringing

my auditory canal is flooding with honey

my medulla oblongata is playing a sonata

or is that a waltz you’re talking

sugar nectar

yes of course I’m delirious it’s

this heat you know

summer melting

or

where did you say you were from?

I know I know

I’m dreaming . . . right?

oh yeah,

here comes the

rain

like a meteor

shower.

what?

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