Poetry by J.R. Pearson

The Way The Sky Was Proportioned

Mourning like the sound of doves
is gone.
The last muddy high heel
has stepped from Ben’s grave.

It reaches him now in a waking dream
while opening his gas tank.
An immense deliverance mid-stroke
into his morning shave.
The unexpected raindrop that sits
lazily
during a downpour, holding his brother’s
face.
A strange transport–

to when
we gun barreled the back screen-door into summer.
The way the sky was proportioned
as we ran away from home
with only a bag of popcorn, which you ate.
Fixing the tire on my bike
cobbled together from eight other bikes
and you: this is the worst bike I have ever seen.
Still we rode it into the ground & autumns
never long enough.
Waging war on butterflies
with our tennis rackets and after,
the pincer movement against dragonflies.

Now is the talk of money
& kids & weather & finely, laid, logic.

No longer does Ben’s
laughter curl the air
like burning wood.

Lone Alone

He leans over the chair @starbucks

what if you were the last man on earth
well virtually the last think about it really think
what if no one was out there
emails never got answered
you post a comment no one cares or sees
naked women never come to chat
you send pix they fall into a void somewhere
you think: am I a social leper
in reality virtual reality
they’re all dead
their broad band connection has been exterminated
some transistor Armageddon

A chair scuttles. Presentation re-arrangement. Tie. Coat.
Collar. Coat. Tie, Tie.
Face elsewhere. Eye on me.

think about it long enough
you’ll piss yur pants swear ta God

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