Quick Poem by David Michael Jackson

by David Michael Jackson

Write fast
don”t stop
let me hear those keys click
don”t you dare look up
you might miss this moment
out there
some where.
my soul on the paper
life ticks and tocks
the time away
one long endless moment
at a
Don”t look up
you might
miss it.
This moment
p a s s e s
now this other moment
r e p l a c e s it
Each long
moment laughs at the setting sun
life passes


Carry Me Home Poem by David Michael Jackson

Carry Me Home
By David Michael Jackson

Carry me home
home to the creek
and the water
and the leaves on the trees.
Carry me home
past the worry and the frantic pace to
the water and the dew on the grass
and the summer days
when grasshoppers are plentiful bait for
the fishes.
Carry me home to the field
and the newly plowed earth
and that smell of the soil
so that I may replant myself with hope
for a new
so that I may kill the weeds which have grown over me until
I cannot see the light.

Carry me home past the roads, past
the buildings, past the red lights.
Carry me home through the darkness of a thousand nights spent
grasping for something which is not there, something which
never be there or

Copyright © 1998 by David Michael Jackson, All rights reserved


Plan B Poem by Thomas Kellar


you and me

terminal union

cancer full-blown

no chance of re-mission

we work hard

not to notice


back porch

I sip cheap red

strum a cracked and buzzing

harmony six string

tell the stars

to go fuck themselves


on your back

in bed

Cosmo opened

across your chest

you whisper

something to someone

on the phone


in the kitchen

under the ironing board

the 3 year old sits

blissfully occupying himself

with a green, rubber,

T-Rex toy

welcome to plan B

much time ago

I was to be a writer

of words and music

you were going to travel the world

a single woman

scoring brown-skinned boys

taking in the sights

but as in figure 8 racing

we “discovered” each other

an “accident waiting to happen”

made ourselves giant targets

easy marks

lowest form of idiot

the “little-man”

has no such regrets

no fear for what’s future

he’s like a sponge

soaking up the moment

laughing to himself

as he and imaginary friend

slip past the angel

sent to guard Eden’s gate

Copyright © 1998 by THOM KELLAR, All rights reserved


To Miles Davis and John Coltrane Poem by Thomas Kellar


What Miles Davis was

to melody

John Coltrane was

to virtuosity.

black giants

in white-bread world

mixing up a masterpiece

branding iron hot-glacier cool

tornadoes and sea breezes

shouts and whispers

bold slashing strokes-lines straight, and razor thin

the frenetic energy of a humming bird

the economized motion of a crow

muted trumpet-raging tenor sax

“Kind of blue”

2 of a kind

heaven squared


Dead Men Don't Care by Thomas Kellar


dead men don”t care what the surgeon general thinks

dead men drive around with no place to go

dead men figure the come-on at the end of the bar, more trouble than

she”s worth

dead men hold alcohol in a medicinal light

dead men will sleep in their work clothes

dead men never have to RSVP

dead men keep the curtains drawn

dead men buy cars, and smokes, based solely on price

dead men avoid eye contact at all cost

dead men doodle on the obituary page

dead men drive on bald tires with cracked windshields.

dead men accept with resignation, the next day”s hangover

dead men listen to Coltrane, and Davis, start to finish, no


dead men never floss their teeth

dead men will drink Sake cold

dead men take the long way to work

dead men don”t sweat expiration dates

dead men never wear bandages

dead men are past blaming anyone

dead men see horse-shit and diamonds the same

dead men don”t care where the candle-wax falls

dead men forget what day of the week it is

dead men can”t get to sleep at night, can”t wake up in the morning

dead men have nothing in their hands

dead men never ask another chance

dead men have no need to make sense of anything

dead men play dumb when they know they”re being lied to

dead men have made the connection between sorrow and desire

after losing the thing he loves

a dead man will spend the rest of his days

anesthetizing the past

pouring gasoline on the future

dead men

have no fear of dying the second time


Line of Sight Poem by Thomas Kellar


maybe the angel watching over me

strikes a match along the corner of my eye

the way them TV outlaws use their cowboy boots

whenever they need to light up a smoke

or maybe the skittish ghost of a firefly

tries to engage me in blind man”s mystic bluff

I turn to look-too late-I miss it

left to ponder the validity of the hidden message

it happens all the time beyond the borders

micro sunspot surfing the line of sight

Marlboro angel in a nicotine fit

fires up when God looks the other way