It’s good to be back
out amongst poets;
amongst these crazy charming
bewilderingly astute
music makers.
Jack-in-the-box,
Jack being less nimble,
Jack jacking off with Viagra,
Jack, the former taxi driver extraordinair
paints us pictures
with his lyrical expressions;
that he also colors canvasses
with actual pigmentation
does not so much surprise me
as it seems to cement his
quirky talent in a far more serene sensation.
The new girl from Astoria
who says that she is old
and that she likes the writing of Robert Smith,
stuns with her humble beauty;
fumbling in the darkness
which prevents her from witnessing
the complexity and artistry of her own
Scrutiny.
Alan IS THE BRONX
or so he tells me…
and if his words are true
than the jittery neighborhood prince
among mere mortals
has hidden all of his treasure,
wrapped in twilight raiments
of endlessly interesting pentameters,
to entertain us all in our Manhattan
SoHo despair.
And Evie (is that short for Evelyn)
wanders in spilling poetry like pennies
for the distressed and the weary
as I side eye temptation to bolt
from the lazy stare
of sympatico hooligans of obscene desire.
One last nameless stranger
and the cycle is complete,
absent other friends
but filled to the brim
with amusement, power and nerve.
Written by Jason Wright
November 8, 2018
