david jewell poet

words. photos. images. whatnot.

jrnl photo 1

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jrnl photo 1


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life is fire

whether i am sound asleep

or totally wired

life feels more like going down a river

than driving down a road

with a map.


one way or another the river will take me


completely unaware of what is between now

& then.

The main thing about being alive

is,  no one knows.


                           alligators lick the shore

                  near the lawn of the outdoor party

         lightning bugs & cicadas & lanterns

  of all colors other small lights

  scattered magical all around

inhibitions drop like clothes

                         in a dressing room

        & have one last look in the mirror––




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hands apples falling/catchtes gravity plump/ripe luscious fruit

pommegranite/plum ripe for plucking oh so lucky/crispy day

dissolving in the sweet/october sun coming undone/another fall

another autumn – another spell not/quite broken – relinquish me and

make it solemn/bereft of tears like a downtown gollum/up by

the cliffs/down by the waves everyone so thirsty as they crawl

from their graves – oh halloween – oh day of the dead – oh life always

unwinding the story/unravelling in my head … when i was an

apple i knew you as the tree, everything i have now is like i am

falling/too ripe to pluck when you set me free.


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I know nothing––

I have lived in its house for many years.

I have floated in its starless infinite liquid black ink with no compass and

no clue where I might be drifting, or if I am in motion at all.

I know nothing––

its sense of humor at unlikely times,

it’s sudden bursts of brilliance and peace,

its terors and night-sweats and lack of light that is darker then space,

darkness-beyond-darkness that takes you to the highway in the rain,

makes you want to live again,

makes you want to roll the dice with your one last gasp,

your last arbitrary wish, your last lucky penny,

roll the dice as you are falling

even if you may never see them land,

or know if they’ll come up lucky 7, or snake-eyes, or craps,

even if you know you may never know




mr. shadow

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let your shadow do the walking

little horse race

let your shadow do the talking

mr. not-much-to-say

let your shadow take the hit

everything goes right through him

he don’t care

he so very flexible

on rocks, on water

stretched out at sunset

and sunrise,

he always changing every which way

depending where the light is coming from…

or how many lights are on…

or, like a flash.

and when you play with him

and dance with him

and pose for pictures with him,

he don’t mind all that.

he is changeable.

he don’t pretend he’s only one person.

he don’t pretend to have so much substance.

he knows he can’t hold onto anything.

he knows he’ll disappear when the lights go out.


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rain erase me and clean my face as i stare into the sky as you fall.

rain come find me and bring your clouds the sun is burning into my skull.

rain let me taste you let me drink you and become you carry me with you to the sea.

rain help me call you help me see you and dance with you , your tiny drops all over me.

rain my sweet sister , my brother , my mister , my mama , my saviour , my disaster.

rain. yes. welcome. welcome sweet rain. it has been so long. my skin needs you.

rain come again and stay a little longer and wash me away and bring me back in

from the rain.

nada dada improv

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now inside the thunder whispers of another room.

disjointed arabesque of mountainous fortitudes.

wallover sychophants like Houdini penumbra.

whichever way upside-down space is everywhere.

fire burns always since time began counting.

everyone loves a disguise when running from the law but

no one can run from the silver lined epiphany of our deliverance.



(senseless maybe? i had to look up

half the words after I’d written them to

see what they meant, or fit, or get a clue

to what I was talking about, but, I’m not

sure I did… but I’m not sure I didn’t either).

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outside in the dark

morning is blooming again.

my sleep is fitful

and strange.

why isn’t it friendlier––

it is so restless . . .

where does it want to be?


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october mood

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october mood . how many bubbles exploding on this sleepy day expanding

chilly and grey (a real october) / and the surface of things is reflection

it goes back /  it goes behind / it goes forward

into unknown crevices and surprises /

sometimes like a lightbulb / it is gone all at once /

meloncholy ambulance of thought careening down a rain soaked street (in the middle of night a weary passenger in the back  (on oxygen)  (passed out) then fading in (then passed out))

eyelids like translucent curtains of blood (barely separating inner from outer)

behind the screen / backstage / busy people wonder how to finish the show /

the lead player fainted / in the middle of act one /

––in the audience / a jittery impatience / while thoughts of a wasted evening / (and a monetary refund) / and their own mortality invades them.




November 2015
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