My rhythm
grows distance.

I realize this.

My mind is on autopilot
Try to stay silent.
Let it dry up.

I try to.
I try to slow the mind down.
I try to.

The poet in this chair is neither here nor there.
Rhyming too fast
can make the audience step back.
I know that.

But I guess that’s the way my mind thinks.
Changes channels quick
cause I can’t get past
the silence of the minute
even for a minute.

Can’t get past the idea of writing till the thoughts been thought
til the carp’s been caught,
til the bobber bobs
and the boat rocks.

My guess is ghosts don’t know what they got
til they’re shot.

Bastardized rock.

Glowing Angel Street Signs.
Air conditioned
Heat rises.
This place reeks of scandal
Floral cigarette smoke.

Poet in soldiers clothes
Whispers the world is warfare
Shinola in the tape deck

Drive away
Into the summer air.


Jason Wright is the founder and Editor of Oddball Magazine. His column appears weekly.