Still haven’t wrote the poem to get me going,
to say, yeah that’s the one, it’s over.
Like it’s the last poem ever,
the one that puts it all together.

Heaven, are you there, send Jason over?
Like someone there is listening, maybe.
Like they got their ear to a cloud
and can hear me shout.
Like let me out, I want to get out!
But this medicated mouth has spoken too many riddles.
It has read too many poems, my poems are getting wrinkles.
It has shouted to the ends of the earth, and the edges are sharp.
And I feel the only way to leave your mark is to take a shot in the dark.
So I got this pencil, and a stencil, I’ll draw your ego.
I’ll let my windows open and let this poem let go.
I will free myself in a second, only to mention my idols.
I will feel final skeletal fractures, and hear those cracks on vinyl.
I will look for something, get the world in a choke hold,
stuff it down, stifle it, snuff it out, let it go.
I will give it some air to breathe, and recessitate nature.
I will blow a kiss to mother earth, and she will turn to vapor.
Toxic.

 

Jason Wright is the editor and founder of Oddball Magazine. His column appears weekly. His latest book is Train of Thought.