david jewell poet

words. photos. images. whatnot.


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flesh forgotton on the breeze,
dropped like a robe on a whim at the sea.
flesh a daydream of leaves and trees
of sweet saintly sharks and men on their knees.
flesh a memory like a toothache in a storm,
or like the caress of silk by the fire until dawn.
flesh a silly name for a crayon in a box, and
an unfortunate sound for something so nervy.
what was the word in other languages?
no time to look it up or put it on or ponder.
flesh so delicious and yet so ghastly, so three dimensional,
yearning to dissolve like a sugar grain in a cup of hot tea.
flesh a friend, or a question, or a road. . . somehow
I got here and don’t know where to go.



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rain inside my brainwaves and the river running rapid so

you can see the raindrops hit the rapids and roll and further

down where the water falls and gathers in the big pond that

is sometimes almost still and silent like a membrane between two

worlds and I can see my reflection under the water looking at

myself with the sky above me, when the rain is falling, hitting

the pond, it becomes a dance floor for drops and bubbles,

percussion of all rhythms overlapping the dance of chances

taken and left behind…. instantaneuous choices that change

the course of the river further down . . . but whatever changes––

what stays the same is I keep heading for the ocean, fast or slow,

full or parched, drenched or dry, silent or loud or frenzied. . .

the rain inside my brainwaves, it falls, it evaporates, it falls….

I almost said again, again, but I’ve said again, so many times before.



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flowers knocking on the door
dragging me out to the street
down to the corner to the
coffee shop and then stopping.

what? I asked them. what?
I was still in my pajamas.
I didn’t even have shoes on,
just socks, (that were all soggy
because it rained the night before).

what is this all about? I asked.
the flowers just stared at me,
silent, emitting a pleasant fragrance.
I didn’t even know what kind
of flowers they were… I’d think
they were daffodils, then look away,
then look back and they’d be
roses, or tulips, or orchids…
on and on.

they were flowers. mainly. flowers.
and they had knocked on my door
and dragged me down the street to
the coffee shop and then stopped.

I figured there must be a reason for them
to go to all this trouble. I stood there,
in my pajamas and my soggy socks and
ever-changing bouquet of flowers,
scratching my head. Finally, I lit
a cigarette. and the flowers kept staring
at me. and then, five minutes later,
I walked back home and put them in
a venetian vase.


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then love

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(then love)

love, then.  then, love.
and then.  long pause.  and
   detour.  distraction.
gnashing of teeth.  spinning circles.
           and then hanging
upside down in the vampire cave.  wrapped up
     in a spider web.  and then.   the airplane
falling from the sky.   or taking off.  and the whale
   swallowing you.   and darkness.
darkness without shadow.   and then.
    a little light.   and then.   love.   love.  and then.
  hiding under the covers.   spilling coffee on the pillow.
       laughing at the squirrels outside.   and then.
 long kiss.   all washed away into rush of swirling light.
   no time.  sensation flood of spirit.  body.  a grounding.
   and then.   love.   love.   and then.   another day
          to be in





November 2013
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