A Bunch | Poem

A BUNCH!!!

So I sat down to write the epic poem.
why not? There's no reason,
there's no reason in the universe.
Yes sit down my friend,
my good friend,
you look as if you are going to make the atoms themselves change.
Have a seat,
there is no hurry.
Make your visit.
You came to my friend while he
was waiting for the sun to rise, while
he was waiting for the sunset.
Have a seat now.
What is your hurry?
Are you trying to get to the future? Well, I will tell you the future, so
have a seat,

and we shall not speak of the greeks for they are dead, and
we shall not speak of the impressionist painters for they are dead, and
no, I will not meet you upon this matter lightly
for it is hard to leave them all behind but,
you see this is a legal matter, the stars,
there are laws, you see
that say
that time
will go on
and the sun, and
the galaxy and the universe will
burn out, and
collapse and
end up
in a
dried
up
ball of
nothing
but
atoms, and
the works of
the
greeks, and
the
impressionist painters will
be
in that ball somewhere with
a strand
of my lovers hair,
so,
that's it. Isn't it? So I cannot write that epic poem and
I will drink instead of the wine, and
worship the
moment and watch my lover wash
her hair.
In the morning I shall walk in the field and gather flowers for her table.
Tonight,
yes tonight we shall look at the stars and
wonder.

painting of bridge and ships

ainting of huge oak tree

well it's appraisal time and.........

Wriggling
wriggling
wriggling on the pin
the eye in the lens
"It's a bug"
"No
It's an asset
A resource"
"No"
"It's a bug"
Wriggling
The pin!
Oh, the pin!
Sweating on the slide
The heat!
The heat!
The heat of the light.
The eye again.
"It's a bug."
"No, no, it needs a speech, yes that's it, a speech."
"Stop it
It's getting away."
"Don't let it get off
the property."
"Damn."
"It's gone"
Look!
Over there!
"It's a butterfly!"

Weighing the Jokers
by David Jackson

and so I sit
alone
yet never alone
for you are here with me
and these black and white scribbles which we call words
join us somehow
and make the frozen winterland the same somehow
as the balmy beaches
and the fact of our locations,
the very facts of our lives are
somehow joined in these
intentions of greatness
and of course not knowing even what that is, we
we
we
try
and we
we
we
fail so here we are again
in the winterland, on the beach
with this inability to say just what we mean and by
the very nature of our confusion we
we
we
try again

I suppose all of the
drab
little cubicles in the whole world
could fit into the space
between the eyes of the factory dog
wandering the
parking lot
and lazing away it's time
under the trailers,
eating scraps
tossed by
factory
workers.
Trapped confinements
of factory floors and concrete
painted yellow

downsized

I hear voices outside my cubicle
they are talking work
they have no work talk for me
for I am being downsized
I was big
I was busy
I was useful
now I am small
for I am being downsized
i have almost nothing to do
.......i hear people passing by my
cubicle...
i recognize their voices
and say to my self..."that's so and
so" they are keeping them..
.they are worthwhile.....
I hear them talking
about work......
I am
jealous
Oh I was so big
I carried the company's future
on my broad
shoulders
I walked with other giants
and spoke of 12 hour days and
reports to even bigger giants
now long
gone
there's no
telling how long it will take me
to get enough self-confidence
to get
another job.
i may have had some once.
and self-respect.
so long ago, i
don't remember any more

so let's go
downsize my ass
and get me the fuck
out
of here
(get yourself out of here you fool)
How did you come to this
a downsized fool in a downsized cubicle
in a downsized world
eating downsized shit

Poems, Poems, Poems,
Magnetic spots on diskettes,
ink spots on paper,
words flung at the walls
or
held within
or lost
like those great paintings
of olden days
which were stored in the dampness
of the basement,
like the missing Van Goghs
which had been
used for archery practice.
Words scattered like rice at a wedding,
like
pigeon droppings,
like smoke which drifts and dissipates
in the crisp morning air.
Poetry is like the breeze which ripples the flag.
Just for an instant
the flag defies gravity
and
we notice

she's lying in there
and I am in here in this world
of dragons and knights
wandering among the knomes
castles and flowers
in the
sun

and she is my princess
asleep
on a bed of
leaves
and I am her king
this night
and I will meet my princess
when she awakes
and finds me
here
in
my
robe

Hell Jackson
why don't you just
shut the fuck
up
You might hit the truth
good people,
all
trying to make my life more efficient
can
slow me down

stan

The best painter of our time is wasting away somewhere
the greatest scientist is working

while we are chasing Madonna
with cameras

somewhere some lonely Beethoven works tonight
and maybe
throws some paper
some paper which maybe
will be
in some museum
some
day.
He beats his head against some wallpapered wall.

Somewhere some unknown poet taps taps taps at the keys
leaving scraps behind
to be thrown away by
elvis

Coyyright 1999 David Michael Jackson

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