Verbosities of the Soft Spoken
poems & such by j. Clark
this is partially for the the tiny flicker of a toe as sleep approaches and the spike in the moonâ€™s pulse that ripples the sea, this is for the falling star in the periphery of my vision, watching a thunder storm over Chicago from a beach in Michigan. really though itâ€™s in for retired versions of all the people I love. this is for the acid washed fanny pack I lost after I quit my janitor job. this is for quitting cigarettes and remembering to breathe. this is for all the hell my mum went through so I wouldnâ€™t have to. this is for the Litribune Tribe and my Garlic House family. this is for confusing ambiguity with lesbianism and lips that play vocal cords. this is for that tarnished microscope and my insecurity. this is for parents daring & crazy enough to put up with me and awesome enough to spawn my little brothers. this is for hiding in a cryptic forest and how magnificent it is to be found. this is for shaking out dandruff from a sweaty duvet in the honest morning. this is for looking into the mirror and freaking the fuck out. this is for feet and peddals and velocity. this is for the versions of us to come.
a crush/ a blush
Classist Bullshit You wear your dirt and hunger more naturally than the rest of us, brother. Your kind gestures donâ€™t request bus-fare.
I canâ€™t spare much besides crumpled thoughts in #2 scribbles. Rusty gratitude meeting bewildered eyes. Is it a surprise that there is so much common ground? For example the concentration of salt dissolved in tears, the language our stomachs use to complain, or the battle for first breath. First breath: a gateway drug we've all got in common. What's the difference between your bridge card, and a dumpstered diet? Kids in the burbs are vaccinated against inherent similarity. Blinded with picket fenced morality. Gov't issued us vs. them tomfoolery. Commercialized immunity. Every boarder is an illusion, every breath a transaction between lungs and trees. Those who can fathom your shoes brother, know better than buying the bullshit.
Ruminations from the ruins
This path is too familiar with the scarcity of sunlight, it knows little more than the different rhythms of vitamin D deprived feet & vapid neutrality an overcast existence. Few think to mention the dinosaurs in their last generations stomping around in the ominous fog that fatally did them in. Oh fingers, how impeccably you imitate icicles... somewhere my car is being impounded, but here in the fluorescent library I am letting my eyes glaze over, becoming queasy from the stench of homelessness & tax cuts. Upstairs, the Bourgeoisie are waltzing, sipping conspicuously on the champagne we unknowingly bought with donations to the public school system. The sky knows too intimately the howling of wolves & children left behind. My body, too fluent in the dialect of gravity. Fueled by nothing but laziness and a misplaced manhood I collapse, and stare at the hypnotizing ceiling tiles, how comforting it is-to be eaten alive.
Whose Got the Crack?
These thoughts, ideas, images and doodles were caught, tamed and assembled by jesicka crunch from the tangles of her brain and the world at large. should you want to gank them or reproduce them, please do so creatively. The typogrpahy is called Big Calson, Georgia, and jankalicious hand scribbles. Feedback/ dialogue should be sent to neonLung@gmail.com.
Published on Aug 18, 2011