thejournalofbisonjack:
A History of Love
.
A girl walks into the river, a woman’s body is pulled from the sea.

thejournalofbisonjack:

A History of Love

.

A girl walks into

the river,

a woman’s body

is pulled from

the sea.

Anyone’s Guess
.
The only thing that’sabsolute is death. The rest, is anyone’s guess.

Anyone’s Guess

.

The only thing that’s
absolute is death. The rest,
is anyone’s guess.

The Last Day of Summer
.
It was the middle of the afternoon, the time of day in the south when the air thickens and dark clouds bloom. A young black woman, wearing a bright yellow dress, hurried along a dirt alley shaped by poverty and neglect. For me, the alley was a shortcut. For her, I had the feeling it was something else. If it wasn’t for the baby on her shoulder, and the mud clinging to the wheels of her suitcase, I think she would have been running.Perhaps a photograph might tell the story better than these words, but at the time I felt like I couldn’t take anything else from her, and besides that—sometimes a lens can stop you from seeing. When I think back, I can still feel the air closing in and hear the trees whispering. And, when I close my eyes, I can still see all those red maple leaves falling from thesky; so many, that it seemed as thoughthe clouds were full of butterflies.

The Last Day of Summer

.

It was the middle of the afternoon,
the time of day in the south when the
air thickens and dark clouds bloom.
A young black woman, wearing a bright
yellow dress, hurried along a dirt alley
shaped by poverty and neglect. For me,
the alley was a shortcut. For her, I had
the feeling it was something else.
If it wasn’t for the baby on her shoulder,
and the mud clinging to the wheels of
her suitcase, I think she would have
been running.
Perhaps a photograph might tell the
story better than these words, but at the
time I felt like I couldn’t take anything else
from her, and besides that—sometimes
a lens can stop you from seeing.
When I think back, I can still feel the air
closing in and hear the trees whispering.
And, when I close my eyes, I can still see
all those red maple leaves falling from the
sky; so many, that it seemed as though
the clouds were full of butterflies.

Travels

.

As the pain from stubbing my toe on the

kitchen table traveled up my spinal chord,

and the cup of coffee fell through the air

in slow motion—I longed for the time when

I didn’t need all this stuff; not just the piece

of shit kitchen table or the waste of time

coffee machine, but the idea that somehow

in the mess I was making of my life—I still

believe I can make a difference.

As the coffee cup and incoming pain passed

each other on the way to their respective

destinations, I also remembered the time

I said  no to the French girl—who wanted

me to move with her to the South of France.

(insert expletive here)

thejournalofbisonjack:
The Furnishing
.
In a room full of smoke perfume,the sediment of sentiment sits at the bottom of a wine-stained glass. For company: an upset chair,a worn-out sofa, and the sound ofsomeone moving around upstairs.

thejournalofbisonjack:

The Furnishing

.

In a room full of smoke perfume,

the sediment of sentiment sits

at the bottom of a wine-stained

glass. For company: an upset chair,

a worn-out sofa, and the sound of

someone moving around upstairs.

Haint Blue
.Old wind snakes through the glassless windows of an old abandoned building. At the end of a corridor choked with decay, the skeleton of a large dog guards the entrance to a room where haint blue paint curls away from the walls and a playful breeze whispers in my ear. It is here where I go to scream at the world.It is here where I go to listen.

Haint Blue

.
Old wind snakes through

the glassless windows of

an old abandoned building.

At the end of a corridor

choked with decay, the

skeleton of a large dog

guards the entrance to a

room where haint blue

paint curls away from the

walls and a playful breeze

whispers in my ear.

It is here where I go to

scream at the world.

It is here

where I go to listen.

anonwangsha said: Really want to read that poem about a small town,streets filled with fiances and stray dogs and ends with'I have seen trees beg for forgiveness

Here is said poem

http://thejournalofbisonjack.tumblr.com/post/97515192088/the-deep-down

End Words

.

The only

       difference

             between us, she said,

                              is that

             you are the one running away,

                     and I am the one

                                  going someplace.


Bruise
.
I awoke this morning to find a large bruise
on my left arm, but unable to explain how
it got there I dismissed it as one of those
things, and didn’t think about it again—
until just now, when I noticed it in the mirror.
The shape of a hand has become clearly
defined, and the way in which the black
and purple fingers wrap around my arm
it’s as though someone tried to shake me
awake in the night—but, there is no one
else here. And, after laying my hand on
the bruise, it is clear the bruise is not
self-inflicted as it is an imprint made by
a left hand. Now, in a religious sense
I am not someone who believes in angels
and demons; and, as much as I like the
idea of vampires and werewolves, I don’t
think I was visited by one last night.
However, it does appear that while I slept
someone inside me tried to get out.

Bruise

.

I awoke this morning to find a large bruise

on my left arm, but unable to explain how

it got there I dismissed it as one of those

things, and didn’t think about it again—

until just now, when I noticed it in the mirror.

The shape of a hand has become clearly

defined, and the way in which the black

and purple fingers wrap around my arm

it’s as though someone tried to shake me

awake in the night—but, there is no one

else here. And, after laying my hand on

the bruise, it is clear the bruise is not

self-inflicted as it is an imprint made by

a left hand. Now, in a religious sense

I am not someone who believes in angels

and demons; and, as much as I like the

idea of vampires and werewolves, I don’t

think I was visited by one last night.

However, it does appear that while I slept

someone inside me tried to get out.

Therapy
There is a poem I cannot write,even though I know where it begins,what happens next, and how it ends. Thankfully, I have learned over time that if a poem doesn’t come naturally to you—then it probably means you are not a good enough poet yet. I have also learned that if you write a poem about the poem you are not a good enough poet to write yet, it helps.

Therapy


There is a poem I cannot write,

even though I know where it

begins,what happens next, and

how it ends. Thankfully, I have

learned over time that if a poem

doesn’t come naturally to you—

then it probably means you are

not a good enough poet yet.

I have also learned that if you

write a poem about the poem

you are not a good enough

poet to write yet, it helps.

Close To Here
.
We are all so steeped in allegory, metaphor, and symbolism, that I can’t help wonder if perhaps we use them like we do our hopes and fears—as a way of never having to truly live.But, then again, as I lie here on the floor in the dark watching headlightsdrive across the ceiling, I prefer to think that maybe it is our way offinding meaning when there isn’t any.

Close To Here

.

We are all so steeped in allegory,

metaphor, and symbolism, that I can’t

help wonder if perhaps we use them

like we do our hopes and fears—as

a way of never having to truly live.

But, then again, as I lie here on the

floor in the dark watching headlights

drive across the ceiling, I prefer to

think that maybe it is our way of

finding meaning when there isn’t any.

Forever and Ever

.

It was early evening. In a parking lot

across the street from the local bar, an

11 yr old boy sat behind the steering

wheel of his parents car.


There was a chill in the air. The boy’s

mother had left the heater on to keep

him warm. The boys father promised

to return with some chips and lemonade.


The streetlights came on. A husband

followed his wife in to the video store.

The dry cleaners was already closed, but

the boy could see someone in the back,

still working. In the diner, two men sat

alone at different tables in the window.

A waitress in a pink uniform moved

between them.


The first few drops of rain sounded like

little feet scampering across the roof.

Then it poured. The streetlight high above

the parking lot, flickered its discontent.

That’s when the boy saw her.


Barely visible in the rain, a girl about

his age was sitting in the back seat of

a white sedan parked outside the video

store. She, too, was looking at him.


Self consciously, the boy fumbled with

the radio dial until he found some music,

and briefly considered sitting on some

school books to make himself look taller.


When he looked again, the deluge of rain

had stopped; but the window had filled

with condensation and he had to use his

hand to wipe away the moisture.


The street light flickered again. The boy

could see the white sedan, but the girl

was no longer there. He wondered if

she was hiding or perhaps, now it had

stopped raining, if she had gone inside

the video store or the diner.


Frantically, the boy wiped away the

moisture from the windscreen and

passenger side window looking for her,

then climbed in the backseat and

wiped away the moisture from the

side windows and back window too.  

Still, he couldn’t see her.

Then, as the condensation began

to return,  he saw the love heart she

had drawn in her window.

The Slither of Fluorescence
.Lit only by the embers of desire and a slither of fluorescence, she lay in bed watching him dress while pretending to be asleep. It had been a long time since she had seen a man put his clothes on, and longer still since she had allowed herself to be seen. 

The Slither of Fluorescence

.

Lit only by
the embers of desire
and a slither of fluorescence,
she lay in bed watching
him dress while
pretending to be asleep.
It had been a long time
since she had seen
a man put his clothes on,
and longer still
since she had allowed
herself to be seen.
 

The Angry Poet

.


My friend, the angry poet, got

a call from a man at the poetry

society this morning. Apparently,

his latest poem I Killed Bambi

was going to receive an honorable

mention, and a small check,

in this years poetry contest.

Unfortunately, my friend thought

the man said horrible mention

and told him to go fuck himself.

The Bank
.
All the men in line at the bankturned their heads when a pretty young woman’s summer heels clip-clopped across the linoleum floor—like a filly being paraded at the race track just before she is mounted and kicked and whipped to the finish line.

The Bank

.

All the men in line at the bank
turned their heads when a pretty
young woman’s summer heels
clip-clopped across the linoleum
floor—like a filly being paraded
at the race track just before she
is mounted and kicked and
whipped to the finish line.