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2 poems by justin chase jones

2/12/2017

 

two big-ass clouds

hatching plans like pokemon eggs
a safe yet relevant metaphor
knowing how you hate the taste of those
hanging on your tongue w/ your coffee breath
but like whatever man
remember the moon
remember the alamo
remember the titans
remember on sports day
may 11, 1994
when mr. smith's ball-sack
floated out his shorts on the high-jump

this was before we had accessible internet
a month before netscape was found
looking ahead to weezer themed chat-rooms
short-lived eagle eye cherry msg boards
when you were the size of a sears brand beginner guitar
or other eight-year-old children

big-haired / blue-eyes
rly into beekeeping atm
thinkin' abt midwifery soon
auto-tune the sound of my future dentures
biting into a sandwich just like this
i wish (i wish) i wish

so we spend all of 2008
in child's pose
because at the vry least
we need our lives
to be a stretch
​

so happy in this "brand new" & brown vintage scarf
so happy in this new set of arms
so happy in this drugstore
where an akon song is playing
so happy & so gay safe from harm
we hug ourselves
knees to heart
knowing nothing lasts forever
even seal is going to die
hopefully not for a long-ass time

baby's day out (1994)

900 fire extinguishers  exploding in the trunk of my subaru hatchback for a music video being shot in south africa. wow, holy fuck! a rose-red screen fades to pitch black as our producer peeks out the window through a crack in the venetian blinds. you've been reading bret easton ellis again, i can tell. i am going through my mumble-core phase, finding bibles in the sky, questioning everything except these rad-as-hell dogs in this wide-open wal-mart parking lot.

long post-rock interludes to hardcore songs, delida of buttercups, the dylan thomas sky.

i understand more about ryan gosling's character in "blue valentine" but i am not saying that i relate to him. you made it out. father had his surgery. i rub this daisy into my palm and know that i am leaving. spanish birds fly into my lungs, closing my throat. yes, this is beautiful and perfect.

we stop to wonder where this quilt came from. i ask if i can hold your hand again. i am addicted to saving, but boy do i ever want that lawn-chair.

tell me again who taught you the cold water extraction method and exactly how she died. make me a real tight fist by the mid-field boxcar at night. we kick up, with hot soft light under big october sky and we are shaky high.
✱✱✱
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 justin chase jones is the garbage pail kid of contemporary poetry and loves to paste poetry on the city streetlamps in calgary, alberta, canada. their other work can be found in spy kids review, pajama party zine, vagabond city lit, bottlecap press and via their youtube channel. they also blog at http://youlostthestarlightinyoureyes.blogspot.ca
    Picture

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