David Michael Jackson 
PASSENGER CREEK
Passenger Creek she calls to me
those boysteps wandering
her banks,
thy banks.
she calls like the ancient winds
call
she calls with the quietest
of voices
your voices
thy voices
Her green waters flow
in me,
my brothers,
my
father.
My mother’s tiny little house
beside the creek
Passenger Creek
– David Jackson
***
well it’s appraisal time and………
Wriggling
wriggling
wriggling on the pin
the eye in the lens
“It’s a bug”
“No
It’s an asset
A resource”
“No”
“It’s a bug”
Wriggling
The pin!
Oh, the pin!
Sweating on the slide
The heat!
The heat!
The heat of the light.
The eye again.
“It’s a bug.”
“No, no, it needs a speech, yes that’s it, a speech.”
“Stop it
It’s getting away.”
“Don’t let it get off
the property.”
“Damn.”
“It’s gone”
Look!
Over there!
“It’s a butterfly!”
***
the greatest scientist is working
while we are chasing Madonna
with cameras
somewhere some lonely Beethoven works tonight
and maybe
throws some paper
some paper which maybe
will be
in some museum
some
day.
He beats his head against some wallpapered wall.
Somewhere some unknown poet taps taps taps at the keys
leaving scraps behind
to be thrown away by
elvis
– David Jackson
***
Hell Jackson
why don’t you just
shut the fuck
up
You might hit the truth
good people,
all
trying to make my life more efficient
can
slow me down
to
a
stan
d
s
t
i
l
l
***
she’s lying in there
and I am in here in this world
of dragons and knights
wandering among the gnomes
castles and flowers
in the
sun
and she is my princess
asleep
on a bed of
leaves
and I am her king
this night
and I will meet my princess
when she awakes
and finds me
here
in
my
robe
***
Poems, Poems, Poems,
Magnetic spots on diskettes,
ink spots on paper,
words flung at the walls
or
held within
or lost
like those great paintings
of olden days
which were stored in the dampness
of the basement,
like the missing Van Goghs
which had been
used for archery practice.
Words scattered like rice at a wedding,
like
pigeon droppings,
like smoke which drifts and dissipates
in the crisp morning air.
Poetry is like the breeze which ripples the flag.
Just for an instant
the flag defies gravity
and
we notice
***
