David Michael Jackson

Till Death Do Us Part
——————————————————————————–

The contract is over
In death we have parted
I am alone now
Alone and broken hearted
The poison drink is bitter
The pain of it cuts deep
But soon we’ll be together
I’ll join you in death’s sleep

If I should dream then
It will be of you
And now that the time’s come
I bid my life adieu

***

BLUES ON THE RADIO
laura,
tears run silently down her
cheeks
coffee in front of her
old blues song on the radio
mom too tired and hungover
laura wanting happiness
wanting understanding
mom too tired and wasted
ain’t no purpose she says,
there ain’t none
mike at home lighting a
rock
tears on his cheek
heavy metal on the ghetto
no family
friends an illusion
“c’mon,’ says reggie,
“it ain’t so bad”
laura hands mom a smoke
mom shaking the hangover
chills
shaking hand lights a match
laura
looks out window
kids playing in the snow
mailman on corner blows out smoke
a firetruck makes its run,
ain’t no purpose she says,
there ain’t none
mike shakes reggie’s hand
“we’re not going to make it, are we?”
reggie smiles
laura cries
“no…”says reggie,
“but who the hell does?”

***

JUST ANOTHER NIGHT TOM WAITS ON THE STEREO
out my window on the 18th floor
view of downtown skyline and
old warehouses of the exchange district
looks like chicago
beautiful and terrifying
urban madness
down at street level
hot summer night
some young punks get into
punching clawing beating
with vicious precision
ungrateful at their luck
of having been blessed with
geography
would you rather be in afghanistan?

the violence continues
i call the cops
i scream at the moon
STOP THE BULLSHIT
why, i say,
WHY?
there ain’t no solution
there can’t be
we were wired faulty from the beginning
it’s not about toxic emissions
or environmental rape
or serial killers salivating
at the
crotch
or planes slamming into the
world trade centre
or america with its hidden agendas
or canada with its indifference
or europe with its pseudo-sophisticated elitism
or street gangs running the streets
killing
like that’s all they know,
it’s about US
US,
every last one of us…

i look back down at
the street, the cops are hauling
the punks away
i smile,
there’s a knock on my
door,
mike says it’s time for a drink
“i got to tell you about emma” he says,
happy
red cheeks
electricity in his hair.
“let’s hear it” i say…

***

TRAMPLED
laura’s a dominatrix
says her job
is to sit on men and women
as heavy as possible there’s no
sex, she says,
but that is sex, don’t you see, i say…
“i trampled a woman so hard the other day
i think i broke one of her ribs”,
well it’s a wonderful life i say,
you got 20 bucks she says?
i hand it to her
she gives me a kiss
“still fucking the stripper down the hall?” i say
she winks, “don’t tell mike.”
shakes her haunch out the door
walks into her place
reggie’s there with shiny eyes
got kicked out of the whorehouse
staying with mike and laura
she hates this
they argue constantly
all sorts of characters in and out of there
scene building up to no good timmy
asks laura to walk all over him
50 bucks says laura,
fuck you says timmy,
he shakes his head, he downs a scotch
he thinks of venice where he spent a summer
a long time ago
a delicate moment with his nephew
in the world of gondolas and passion and
everything else
he downs another scotch
laura’s screaming at someone
mike’s trapped somewhere in his head
i see emma from my gigantic sliding windows,
she walking in the sweltering heat high heels on the cobblestone
GODDAMNIT, THERE SHE IS,
DON’T STOP YOU FUCKING WHORE
YOU BRILLIANT COLLECTION
OF MADNESS
YOU DAYGLO BITCH QUE
***

nearing the end
——————————————————————————–
what wants to build when all is destroyed
what is the fear
security was always wanted
to be living on the plane of the mundane
the casual, nice, neat, work-a-day world
where everything fit
even the stringencies of crisis had an appeal
as long as you had your place

what is this vacuity
this dearth of imagination
this is the level
where you run out of dirt
where there are no more bodies to exhume
where you have to stop digging

***

Rest in My Love
——————————————————————————–

Rest in my love, rest,
it is not today we care,
Your journey has been long, rest.
Love’s sensibilities hold you too tight.
Yet, it is life that sings,
Look first to your own and be brave,
Hold love, but do not restrain,
This love is precious and is pure,
Look inside and see,
You are a blossoming, coming through,
Kind fate shines upon you,
No doubt you need love now,
And real places in time,
Look, it is you holding the wonders there,
Look after yourself, my dear.
Be happy with your lot.
Nobody is dealt all correct.
We look after you now.
I know your road has been long.
You are tired of this way, rest.

© 1999 Jacqueline Howett

——————————————————————————–

Rich Home of My Soul
Rich home of my soul,
I have not forgotten your tenderness,
When harsh cruel forces come and go,
Seemingly at their own whim,
I come again and drink of your cup.

©Jacqueline Howett 2000-2002

——————————————————————————–

Jacqueline Howett born in London England, came to live in Maine in 1988/9 and has been a full time author/poet/play writer/artist/home maker, and of late, online promoter. She has written two major novels of her early life that have taken 14 years to complete. The Greek Seaman and The London Cassandra. She has self published a book of poetry by Elivlio Publishing titled: Amorphous Angelic, Selected Poems with several others poetry books in the wings, including a book of poems translated from the Greek language, which she composed after the death of her Greek born mother in 1996. These she hopes to make available in audio. She has published poetry on various internet poetry sites and anthology”s, and for several years maintains numerous websites for promoting Authors in the Spotlight, Poets Spotlight and Artist Spotlight which she e-mails out at random at her sites ATLinkswith and ATLinkswithPoetry.

Her own site is called JACQS WORLD where you can view all links and her wares.

When not writing, Jacqueline enjoys biking and walking back bay in Portland, and the local Islands, swimming at Sebago lake, the café scene in Portland, attending occasionally writer/poet/artist events, theater, cooking, gardening and growing herbs and veggies at home in Portland, Maine.

***