david jewell poet

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balderdash horatio jitters out front dancing to the raindrops.

every second syllable is like some leggy filly full of spice and vinegar.

i step out into the moonlight and the howling begins before i’m even thinking.

neighbors close their windows and disconnect thier phones, oh wait, they can’t do that anymore.

the century is changing color like a clear glass of water with a new drop of red ink every 5 minutes.

the trees look sleepy and peaceful wearing the misty morning but they live so long what would i know.

finally something and then something else but once again it is only the beginning of the mystery.


superbowl sunday

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Myself in a shell of television. 

Another manikin football game
gridiron apocalypse
very savory cigarette wine
running like a river down
the bleachers

stand people screaming
people individual

this is part of a big old
stadium collective they want
one sided windows & have
one deal only. 


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What I want for Christmas

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What I want for Christmas:
To forgive and be forgiven.
To have Patience for people,
and for people to have patience with me.
Love. Light. Desire to Live and Celebrate the warmth
and essence of radiant goodness at the core of everyones
true nature and heart.

For Christmas this year I want to feel––(to allow––to invite––to flow with and
bloom)––the immense gratitude in my heart for all my family and friends––
gratitude for the human capacity to Feel Gratitude and be Aware and
somewhat Conscious.

Gratitude for being one of the little drops of water, in the infinite, edgeless,
roiling cosmic ocean, that gets to be curious about itself,
and wonder, and be in awe…
And on a good day, be really happy, and on a bad day, be really miserable––
aware of the illusion of the happiness and misery, and to know the truth is
far beyond my capacity to understand for more than a nanosecond––but, that
nanosecond being eternity, and then to know, like what John Lennon said,
“We all shine on, like the moon, and the stars, and the sun”



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preposterous snowflakes of restitution.
snowflakes of many wheeled concerns.
snowflakes of horses running through burning barns.
collections of snowflakes hiding
inside Faberge eggs
snowflakes melting with abandon and bliss
the moment they land on the top of a wave
in the ocean.
snowflakes of peacocks worrying themselves
like supermodels rushing to meet fleeting rock stars through
the leggy streets of new york.
snowflakes of passion and amber.
snowflakes born from fire dancing up through chimney
to imitate stars and fireflies.
snowflakes beating their heads against the prison walls
wanting to take away all the pain
from every prisoner . . . for however long
they can.
snowflakes swirling in the heart, like in a snow-globe,
resting then swirling, resting then swirling,
ever re-newing joy.


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A panther looks me in the eyes from a cave in the back of my brain––
whether he is purring or growling is hard to say.
The thunder murmur from his chest and throat stays at low boil,
without effort, asleep or awake.
Whether it is a he or a she is also hard to say––
it seems to change back and forth––at times very feminine,
at times masculine––
always languid with a capacity for immediate
extreme brutality.

This panther lives in a cave at the back of my skull
and I would like to let it roam more freely through my body––
claw my heart––crawl through my bones––
leap out of my eyes or mouth as anger and passion,
move my feet,
turn my hands to claws.

If my body were as relaxed as the muscles of a panther at rest
there is nothing I could not accomplish.

ocean again

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mountain green vibration humming distraction.
windows are for looking or opening.
doors are various joys and surrenders and escapes.
and sometimes after thousands of miles

I stand facing the very same door again––
it is the same door, but I don’t know
if I’m the same person. Maybe

I was green then and now I’m blue.
Or red. Like the clouds keep changing.
Unless it is just one cloud. Or,
Maybe I’m a cloud, over a mountain.

Evaporating again. Or falling
like rain. On my way to the ocean.