Jay Sizemore is a poet and author of 15 collections of poetry along with one collection of short fiction. If you’ve heard of him, he’s sorry, he must have fallen down the rabbit hole of his own paranoid delusions. He now works and lives near Portland, Oregon, and mostly tries to forget the past.
The road is life
~after Jack Kerouac Roads and rivers and wild ribbons of smoke trailing speeding locomotives carrying travelers ever which way like blood cells waving neck ties long as telephone wires traversing this crazy hill scape blurred by the passage of inescapable time. The birds cry out, their throats entire jazz bands filling impossible crescendos with white noise and black noise, the music of life, the drum beat of a billion stars pulsating through the vacuum of the night, saying witness me, love me, miss me when I'm gone behind the veil of another surreptitious summer, warm sunshine and perfume, where all the mad blossoms bloom into the colors of their vestigial doom, a fate that lingers behind all things, an apparition of hands, moving mouths, all faces swirling and blending into one, this is it, man, this is the dream the epiphany of a finger snapping quick lightning through an inky fog, brief illuminations of want outlined in the milky violence of a bruise the size of Texas left on the shoulder of God. It's sex. It's amphetamine. The first taste of peaches and cream, and the wasted bygone eras of a million broken strings, broken chains, broken beams, the rotted boards in the rotten porches of the forgotten and empty swings, all the houses crumbling across the dusty and vacant plains, where we once lived, where we once believed, that all this was real, that it was tangible, the smell, the touch, the flavor of dust tinged rain quivering the dry husks of the corn leaves, and yes, we thought it would last forever.
Birth of the body
~after James Joyce All homes eventually become pawn shops. You become the ghost of your own father, a dead treasure of hollowed bones— click clack clackety dream catcher of decay. The sea hides its faces, sun flung spangles, dancing coins on the surface of the water— Form of forms, Body of my body, Mind of my mind, Shell of my shell. Lamp light and wormwood, Ouroboros of laughing corpses and the secrets of stone. Man becomes God becomes man becomes sea becomes seam and stars and skeletal chasms of the sky of the earth, under swept and scuttled a capsized ship speaking to the lapping waves. Corpus Christi with a tree frog rescued from a sink drain, opera music swelling as it leaps from my fingers to the damp foliage, body glistening a pulsing river of green. I am the tree frog. I am the foliage. I am the hand, and the promise of teeth beyond the pines. There is no main character here, no protagonist except time and breath, the incessance of sound that lives with or without being heard.
~after George Orwell Pigs don’t have to fly when they can walk on two legs, and teach the sheep to sing. The windmill will never be finished. All this work, without the benefit of hands, building the rainbow bridge between now and Sugar Candy Mountain. Hear the raven deliver his gospel, the animalism of instinct pitted against intellect, a kind of living revisionism. This time, the windmill will be as large as the world. Snowball was no messiah, he would have held the whip in his teeth, if he’d been given enough time to blood his own slaves. Everyone needs an enemy in order to declare victory in this war, without invention, peace is the windmill.
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