john dorsey

sunday afternoon in a sandusky ice cream shop

i stand outside of
myself shaking in the
summer sun there are
things yet to do

moments left to pause
and think about
how if i was
frank o'hara this would
be the exact right
moment in my life to write a
list poem except i'm
not and i can't
ever seem to remember
an exact right time
for anything

so i think about
the old man who was
evicted from my apartment
building on 12th & spruce
after 38yrs to make
way for college students like me

i remember how he
liked to wear a
polyester jacket every day
no matter how hot
it got to be
outside and how the
last time i saw him
he seemed to be riding an
elevator with no real destination

i wear jackets too
made from leather
made from cotton
made from words & flesh
hung together with boyhood dreams
of suicide as if they
were a second skin
but i'm not the
red baron these hands
are not a sanctuary
and i can't really
say what direction our
dreams might take so
play it as it lays

i stand there thinking
about how melted ice cream
is a good representation
of our potential and how
that old man once
called me a spider
twice removed from miracles and how
this is as good
a time as any
to tell you that
it is august and
that my hands shaking

i want to make
a list of flesh & blood & poems

i want to throw
scrapes of this moment
to the wolves in heaven

hungry for words

whatever their final destination

the dance hall romance of the apocalypse

one day they will
examine our love
as if it were
a dance step
that never really caught on

& sigh captains
of our own particular disaster

our kiss will become
as sacred as the
sonnet a ballad hummed
on the east river
of hell where miracles
are easily forgotten

pawned off on dreams
that never really got
out much

they'll say we were
beautiful in moonlight

praying to godzilla on
bended knee


untitled poem in two parts

i.

it is 3:39am
the time of night
when you start to
wonder if fire ants
suffer from hot flashes

someone has left the
faucet running again overflowing
with words like ghosts or seashells
with shotguns held up
to your ear while
listening to nirvana hum
don't make waves

ii.

it is 4:08am
the time of night
when even drops of water
sweat the courage of
their convictions like ike turner
out for a moonlit
stroll before being seated
in front of heaven's
angry parole board

and i remember only this:

the first time
i got hauled in
for questioning your love

they pasted a poem
inside my rib cage

and made me watch
it fly away

soft
like a love letter
barely held together
by the dust of
angels bones