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Three Poems by Jess Willard



Morning, the call of drunken robbers,
Some god is lifting and placing it in the mountain air,

Not humbled, not sleeping; We wake up with things.
We are not alone where one hand sweeps the day

In the rage which hand of mine i never know
To catch the window so I’m trying both,

switching between them and I’m not sad
When it rains on my left, it warms my right side. I am not

sad. I ride the bus to work where we pick up
The men are going to the fields. He is not a city man.

There I hear of options, of which tools are there for moving soil
Cut off dirt, fatty leaves, chicken head and shortening

Pigs Where decisions are always fast, decisions are always
From this only planet, I am not sad. those flowers,

these men. They don’t wait to burst into bloom. with whom
Which of these mouths would it be best for me to tell you

that men are cool because they are torn
with petals?

wake up

So we are told about the graves
are empty, their inhabitants have been cut off
dust over time,

Although time is not the answer,
and we are told
non-disclosure method

tongue cut
with force it takes
To split the grapes.

which is nothing. Not even sarcastic.
and silly roadside vineyards
fruit is filtered

with deliciousness
Of a lie no fingers
mouth is dead

no where. so indifferent
parents pull on the shoulder
And order Merlot,

look after each other
In the courtyard of the ivy, the awning was rotated,
sleeping for your kids

in the car. This last time.
it’s the beginning of something
On the other side of care.

We are told that an awakening
a vigilance, that to drink in the presence
the grace of the body,

predict that the spirit is no more
Attached. here In we were here.
The chill of holding something.

like sitting in a room
Where your prisoner finally let you sleep,
His amber teeth are shining. Were

Where are we in How
where to look mouth to know
With whom to touch?

Blanes. speak in

Catalonia, Spain

He was sweating. Fireworks rose like wet towers
Above Cala Bono Cove,

Its promontory faces to cut and bend the horizon
Slow climb on the transplant list towards the coast

Marked a race that could not be won.
he took a pen
And the damp pad on the side, the hand a little less stable

But still readable: If family really is the truest kind
of the country,

Your command is to seek something that comes from you and live
Inside. Some such cub of that lion,

This phone from that doe.

On the continent of his birth he could no longer write,
But Latin America only let go of the utopia

Because someone somewhere else said like this-

From across the Atlantic, from this lion to that cub: Catalonia,
The Mediterranean side of the Costa Brava, a separatist
Spanish mouth fed with mexico,

fed with El Salvador; This cub from that lion.
His liver needed to be replaced and his country had nothing to do
with country-

They carried it lovingly, in the children, in the room
of his stomach.

Patriotism, perhaps, is all it has to do
With making enough to feed your kids,

To share any of his worldly sorrows and sometimes to flattery
the woman you love.

Apart from this, many more have been asked.

but re-ascension will produce easier chemistry
from his torso in the morning,

Chemical ashes still in the sand: bottle oranges,
gunmetal blue,
Exploded top of rocket.

He will hold his stomach and cry. This cub. That lion. Wanting

Providence’s Most Precious Thing in the Province
We have to free him.

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