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#18 Ode to Johnny Cash, Bob Dylan, John Lennon, Janis Joplin, Elvis Presley, and the Drugs They Left Behind for Us

Have you ever looked at the sky, and instantly knew exactly what it meant

to be six shades of angry

not at the clouds or at the sun, but at yourself for missing out on everything up until that

point, because right now, precisely at this moment

I want nothing more than to drink grape soda

and watch goosebumps raise on your arms

when I blow cool air at the nape of

your neck

To drip my body over yours and listen

to the neighbors scream at the football on TV

because today is Sunday the Lord’s day

Amen--

and I’ve never felt closer to God than right now, precisely at this moment.

I feel unconditional love, the bible

says something about it somewhere I think,

and if not, it should –

right now, precisely at this moment.

landrie e. jones

#17 On the Rocks

I want to be the alcoholic my bones say I should be, because

if anyone were to do it well, it’d be me. But, I want to go hiking too,

like I talked about with my first love. Search for the hidden treasure

and keep my secrets where

in the Rocky Mountains that guy nearly killed himself, trying to hide.

Tossing my textbooks into the trunk I want that Thrill of the Chase.

Go big or go home, my brother says – gritting teeth and fingers,

gripping the liquor bottle and breathing through smoke.

I agree. Keeping up with the Jones’ never meant more

than when four cop cars line the driveway – not for me, no

hear me all and listen good

For my brother. He went big, I guess. Why can’t I get my shit and

toss it in my trunk? Move to Colorado. Weed is legal there now.

Might as well be a hazed drunk, if a drunk at all. Go big or

Go home.

landrie e. jones

Notes: this is a personal poem but I did pull the italicized lines from Forrest Fenn’s poem in his book “Thrill of the Chase.” This poem is supposedly a clue to a treasure chest he hid in the Rockies

#16 Gallery

Your body is a work of art – I don’t mean like, totally hot

I mean, your nipples

are a Monet painting.

Not Water Lilies, more The Cliff Walk Pourville.

Your thighs are the

Arc de Triomphe --

you know, the one in Paris, you can’t actually drive under it.

Which is kind of odd

if you ask me. So, I

thank you for letting me drive under yours.

Your mind is Frank O’Hara’s

Having a Coke with You,

because you’re the marvelous experience I want to

tell everyone about, but you’re

the only one worth telling.

My brain turns into Patrick Heron’s Azalea Garden 1956

when you walk into the room

in the stained tank top, you

picked up at the Florida pier last year on our trip to

find the prettiest seashell

anyone has ever seen, but

we brought back two buckets full of broken shards, not a one

of them remotely perfect. They

were pretty colors though, and we

can’t leave the broken ones – they’ll feel left out, you said.

When we go back we’ll bring

three more buckets, maybe more.

I can’t wait to buy you the special blue ice cream just so you can

stain another shirt with melted

ice cream while you tell me

about the types of clouds in the sky or the erosion of cliff edges.

I want to kiss your blue lips,

and taste your art

landrie e. jones

#15 Reverse

listing the reasons for quitting often

requires first admitting you’re at fault.

ask me what I want not what I need. I’ll

have you know, I never needed you. Not

your midnight snoring, or the plastic wine

glass of water on top of your nightstand.

smoke cigarettes at the picnic table

without me. Maybe, we’ll see who inhales

then. I love you, I’m incapable of

explaining what that means, but all hail those

who, in a crowd of familiar men,

can make them know. Because, in a crowd of

familiar men, you’re the one I want

to sleep in a twin-sized mattress with, Love.

landrie e. jones

#14 Poem About Fake Guts and Fake Glory

who could believe in such

rotted linoleum

floors, absorbing the rubber bottoms

in our shoes.

the dust under decade old trash bags,

with more mouse bitten holes

than swiss cheese,

suffocates us until

we wheeze with laughter.

in tears we fall to the floor.

in a heap of skeletons,

tangled hips and ribs.

the fake blood pooled in the corner is too

sticky to slip on, and the noose hung from the

rafters is braided Twizzlers.

taking a bite, I become full

then go home, away from the

gentrified stage. Away from the basement.

landrie e. jones

#13 Winter Weary Gentleman

Ekphrastic of David Salle’s Collage

Now listen to me good.

Short skirts and high socks

Wreak havoc on the brains of

Men. Gentlemen are only

Chivalrous

(oh-so-retro)

When pretending to think with

The wrong head. In the

Summer they want repaid. In the dark

humid night if you don’t sweat

Underneath the pool umbrella in

His friends backyard

You might lose your mind counting, bent at the knee

How many stitches it takes to sew your skirt.

-landrie e. jones

#12 Tar

Ekphrastic of Mary Ellen Mark’s Photograph

--150 words long--

I remember feeling you were warm, hand on my skin black and greasy. Leaving stains that became sinkholes. Dragging, covering everything but my toes. They were painted pink to match my tutu. My heart was plain to see. Even so, the fates were jealous, sending crows to peck my eyes out. Never to see the sun, never to see the rain. I can feel the droplets run down my back washing away the tar. Underneath, I am me underneath, you. I wasn't born again, or newly painted, or even truly awake. I was me, now scarred by the sticky heat. The stories that say you change afterwards are bullshit, nonsense. Until I gave up trying to perform in the lights, and grabbed my moldy sequins for the last time. One time to show you I can fly. The second to fall, and prove I can pluck my own feathers out.

-landrie e. jones

#11 Shotgun Daisies

100 words long

The way my brother breathes, as though he doesn’t give two shits whether it’s his last or first, should be illegal. He struts downtown wielding a glock painted like a daisy holding his hands up calling for peace. The 99 bullets in his left gym sock beg to differ, and without a doubt he falls clutching his already weary heart. Which takes him first? When we yelled shotgun and raced to the car I didn’t mean literally. The beats are slow and melt into water droplets, until the monitor runs dry. His hand in mine. You weren’t supposed to fight.

-landrie e. jones

#10 This Title is a Noun

What am I supposed to do in a world which

Takes your skull and scrapes it on

The concrete for nothing more than the slight

Penny. Crunching the bone to powder.

Water it and plant in dirt. Thaw the frost

to create pomegranate colored flowers.

Persephone brought beauty to darkness,

But your death brought early spring.

We cut the roses savoring each petal fall.

You asked why love bites aren’t painful,

Never hesitating - licking your lips.

Dragging thorns, remnants of ancient gardens trail

Behind. Making the next door neighbor nervous.

Will the shrapnel shatter my window or my heart?

Vibrating bullets ricochet in my memories

Leaving the sound of bees.

I'm allergic.

-landrie e. jones

#9 Discover

In the window steam billows

From the shards representing an end.

Ashes rise and gather around my feet,

Bare to the burn.

It’s so red the pots and pans melt to the floor.

I scoop the brown sugar into my palm.

Granules spilled from the bag

When I reached for the long stemmed match.

I missed chasing the dawn, and

Brought it to my kitchen.

The sugar isn’t needed for this batch,

Licking my lips, sweet.

-landrie e. jones

#8 Transparence

Ekphrastic of Francis Picabia’s painting Transparence

I picture the past in

A gilded frame.

Hung neatly with the velvet curtains

Draped with the blood soaked pearls.

I continue hoping.

The gray area between us

isn’t so gray. It’s mauve, and

Taking my rose colored glasses off I see

Nothing really changes.

My golden hair is slicked back and waxy.

Tomorrow maybe I’ll try drinking the

Cherry kool aid at breakfast.

You have always said life is too short

For the angels.

Tomorrow maybe I’ll sin.

-landrie e. jones

#7 Congregation

Ekphrastic of Kiki Smith’s Congregation

Congratulations, you

Managed to faceplant.

Even with a halo you're

Full of premium bullshit.

It’s not a golden trance or

Disney song.

It’s a stationary, solid oak.

Trapped by the roots.

Almost like a picket sign,

A poster child of sin.

Angelic rays focus on rodents

Tearing apart your virtue.

Naked in the sunlight,

Left to rot and stink.

Who can say you’re beautiful

Now? You never were.

Heart may be gold, but metal,

Even precious, can be sold.

-landrie e. jones

#6 Painter in Bed

Remind me,

Leave before falling in love. Take the bus.

Abandon the inevitable plastic wrap

The only barrier to the hurt. Like my sister.

Before selling your soul to some jazz

Addict without a good pair of work shoes.

...

You can’t be barefoot your whole life,

Open your eyes, light a cigar

…

Watch them stitch your body back together.

Recycle the eyes, recycle the heart.

When the ash falls dont let it in the cut.

Infections last forever.

They'll say monster but

You're a pink fleshy human.

Like everyone else.

Your specialty lies in scars.

The couch scratches my back, and

The bus squeaks. Away.

-landrie e. jones

#5 Brain Fog

Today wide-eyed and bushy tailed

A tree rocked into my porch.

Killed my sense of sunshine with a few

Gusts of leaves and the leftover marbles

from the asphalt parking lot next door.

Who sweeps up the trash in the grass?

We can’t keep sucking it in to blow it

In the fireplace of the past.

the aluminum cans should be recycled,

Make more knives instead.

-landrie e. jones

#4 Death of a Robin

Ekphrastic of Lou Beech Painting

It’s not the eggs nor how blue they become,

It’s the feeling of splinters when I lie.

The chocolate cakes never tasted as sweet

As they did in temptation.

Little boats cross rivers only to find the lost taste

Of a forgotten book.

Never retrieved, just

Delayed by anticipation.

Smoking kills, but not before exploding

In soft pink petals. Wilted by spring.

I had wings then.

Now I can't fly without the promise of lotus,

Kissed by silky bee hives, stacked nine

High toppling into steamy lives.

Why is there gravel under railroads.

It crunches like bones, but

Looks like popcorn. The cinema is

Picturesque with The Sound of Music.

Singing is nice when people don't listen.

Except you, you never talk back.

-landrie e. jones

#3 War is a Force That Gives Us Meaning

Erasure of Chris Hedges’ book War is a Force That Gives Us Meaning

War is a Force That Gives Us Meaning

War’s myth can lead to enemies.

Or, it can lead to our

Own power.

Still it blinds. Swallow it.

One thinks, of killing for God and country.

Under his arm we are just

For each other.

…

I yearn for sex and safety, but a

Fire to the grand palaces is done.

Lust for hurt,

selfish power.

We may not be who we thought we would be.

Movement motivated by desire.

Heroes rise above only to

Fall. Decay into

Electric, rampant corruption.

-landrie e. jones

#2 In This Time of Love, I am Chocolate

I got out of there and I’m lucky because I stole the last red balloon,

Mama would’ve popped it and made me take back the string.

It was funny, she always made it seem like life or death until it actually was.

When she blistered up and choked she was laughing her ass off.

Of all the ways, it had to be memorable. Cheers.

Maybe I'll climb a tree and roll down on a giant pinecone.

Breaking every bone in my body, starting with my nose.

I want the pain to outlast the smell of trailer park Christmas just once.

My beer bottle tree couldn't hold a light to baby Jesus if it tried.

Bones snapping and shrill cackles rain down like salt onto glass rims.

If the alcohol didn't taste like shit maybe I’d dip my toes in for a swim.

But it does. And I do.

-landrie e. jones

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