My son complains there is nothing to do, that he is bored to death.
I tell him to study the dictionary.
He ascends to his room upstairs. I don’t see him for days.
I begin to worry about his absence & he returns
to tell me something, perhaps what he has learned, I hope.
He says, We are the moral liars, of which little is writ of our true selves.
I say, Every single line is connected to every single line.
He says, You invent meaning to suit you. We all do. What makes the connections real?
I say, What I wanted you to capture from the exercise was knowledge.
He asks, So why do you snigger above what you have created?
I leave the question unanswered & step outside into the yard.
I realize my son has more potential than I.
But I wonder if he is too serious to ever be content or content others.
Writ is a lovely word.
Our language is moving
toward the center of the earth,
urged by the wind,
the earth’s will.
Not an animal has moved,
since the first day it woke,
that wasn’t provoked
by its inner weather.
The outward, moving inward,
opens passages between worlds.
Every door in this house is open,
gaping into a beginning.
The silent isolated farms
are covered by a sea of haze
from a wildfire somewhere
to the west of town.
The smoke fills the world
the way the heiligenschein
of the woman who lived
in this house before me
inhabits my liver. I could sit
in the mechanic’s shop & listen
to the passerby’s stories
of hotwired boats & squandered
family fortune for hours
but the evening draws out
vulgar language from the calendar
peddler in the corner who knew
my father. Walking home I see
diseased faces wheezing
in the branches. On the porch
a spider lets herself down
from the eaves. She falls
like an ember in the dark
from the celibate woman
People say after the farms
the town will be next to go.
I open the windows & mind
the whispers & breathing I hear outside.
Every day is Sunday
in this house.
The lilt of the June rain
glancing off the corn leaves.
I read a word for every night I have lived.
The words do not come easily,
the nights never soon enough.
I left a book of poems
in the woods on a stump,
for anyone to find, unaware.
Firstly, it is everlasting. Set in stone. A priori.
Second, though obvious to all, it is put to language by one consumed by one’s own knowledge.
It is music & it is slow & slowly into us all as it surrounds & inhabits.
The birds bathe in the birdbath beneath my window throughout the day.
Any two set points of demarcation can be paired by a single line.
One chair in the yard has been pulled from the table made of gray metal.
My sight is a straight line from my mind to the chair, emitted & reflected.
I would prefer not to follow the first word with another word.
But there is a need for words.
Lastly, there is a need for words.
As the hemorrhaged light of the afternoon fills my being,
the birds through the yard are innately demonstrating a physics unknown to our bodies.
Shannon Jonas will read from his recently published book of poetry, Battle Sleep, Thursday, July 21, 7pm, in the Student Lounge of Martin Hall on the campus of New River Community College. There wi…
Source: Shannon Jonas reading–Thursday, July 21, 7pm, New River Community College
http://email@example.comShannon Jonas will read from his recently released book Battle Sleep at The Nines in Fayetteville, AR. Joining Shannon reading will be Katie Nichol and Sara Nicholson.
Source: Shannon Jonas reading–Thursday, June 23, 7pm, The Nines, 546 W. Center St., Fayetteville, AR