Think- this medicine I take at bed
Swells my head with cloudy visions
Dreams of the crest and even my own

These are just thoughts.

Think. About this poem? About the reason I call myself
A poet?

Think. Hear It. Listen to the Spirit

I am just a thought— a backgammon game in your memory
I am the first kiss and the last
Each word autographed onto the prison glass
On to a stronger soul, on to my tattooed back.

Tattooed with the number three
One for me. Two for You. And 3 to learn to let it be.

Think. Hear It. Listen to the Spirit.

Think. This is a funeral procession to a long weekend
And after the wedding of Tuesday through Thursday
We are reborn on Friday,

only to return back to Earth on Monday.

And I only hope that you do the same.

Think. This is a tiny seed, and I am going to plant it.
Till I’m the only living thing, the last angry poet on the planet.

Think. Hear it. The new year rings loud,
the planet needs your spirit, to send us into orbit.

Think, Hear it. Listen to the Spirit,
repeat it and repeat it

your mantra, new rhyme and reason
fall victim to no one,
and keep running. The spirit is coming.

Think, Hear it. Listen to that spirit,

the one that says run with the ball, own your fears
release them on the field,

Hear comes the rolling chorus,
in the roasted forest….

All these things.
are just…

And the anger that swells inside the ink, in this pen…
will run out, and dry.

But our poetry will never die.
Hear it.
Listen to that spirit.

you’ll have to stop running.


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