Arles
Imagine, that little yellow house
Held up by rafters of epilepsy and canvasses
And the screams of oil-paint fumes and gunpowder
And absinthe and prostitutes and blades and blood
One claimed to be a buddhist monk in his self-portrait
The other was a sailor looking for logic on land
Arguing over theology and vowing never to fall in love
Dangerous, their perspective of the chair
DUST
star explodes
periodic table of elements
lifting skull
to nebula above
a circus
beyond feeling
WIND
took a walk on ocean beach
a dead pelican on its side
smashed sand dollars
the horizon a facade
a child sticks a feather in the surf
we're all in the same sea
AT THE END OF THE DAY
animals in the City
holding what we love most
against our chest, close
to the night's heart
five fingers around her neck
wrapped, tightly
i am your life-size
suicide pill, with claws
and teeth
CHAPBOOK
it¹s the thing
you give to people
when you first meet them
and
the thing they burn
when they get to know you
KLEPTO THERAPY
I stole
a hardboiled egg
from
the supermarket salad bar
today
when
I ate
that egg
I could
feel
my
self-esteem
going
up
TWENTY YEARS
of buying dope
on the street:
it's like going
to the deli
they are
either open
or closed
and
sometimes
you go home
sick
and
hungry
AND NOW
i stand
like my mother's husband
halfnaked with towel
wrapped around waist
in the apartment hallway
these are not purple hearts
from korea or vietnam
these are not sharpshooting medals
these are not flags or tattoos
these black-and-blue marks
have always existed under the skin
it only takes a woman
to make them visible
INSIDE THE MUSHROOM
Either the sounds of angels
or the echoes of my own insanity
distinguishing the difference
is crucial.
EARTHQUAKE
for Phoebe
she bangs an upper-case "H"
on the ol' purple typewriter
that she gave me for my birthday
she takes the paper out
and plays w/it
on the carpet
in front
of the t.v.
like
a cat
then, smiling
she gets up
and takes my hand
to go outside and
get a Budweiser from the deli
she knows the little things to do
which stop the eroding of the soul
when the earth opens
and gravity laughs
After several wet salmon seasons in Alaska while working in a cannery, and hoboing along the Columbia River of Washington, until joining fruit tramps and migrant workers in the red delicious apple orchard, and then driving a John Deere tractor before sunrise on slippery-dewed grass of agrarian reform, the factotum ceased. Now a barnacle-covered hermit crab scurrying from class to sea lettuce in the tide pool of San Francisco State University, by the not-always peaceful Pacific littoral.
...Jonathan Hayes is the author of Echoes from the Sarcophagus (3300 Press, 1997), St. Paul Hotel (Ex Nihilo Press, 2000), and self invented (split chapbook with Mark Sonnenfeld, Marymark Press, 2003). Recently published by M.A.G., Remark, and Sidereality; he edits the literary / art magazine Over the Transom
check out Jonathan's new book:
Saint Paul Hotel.pdf
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Jonathan Hayes