2 poems | William Jackson

Apartment #112
Set the beer down on the counter where the roaches play,
stir the food.
It’s night outside and in your heart and in your mind.
A police helicopter circles circles above your head
a halo w/ search-lights and you’ve become so holy you no longer notice.
The bag briefcase dynamite you left the house w/ today is no longer with you but you know where you forgot it.

And there’s a woman on the other side of town who
wants your penis in her mouth and blood-stream but
you’ve decided you’ve been w/ older women long
enough and transmuted it into a lunch and sunny
conversation.

Turn the heat off the meal and sip your beer.
It’s not late enough at night but most of your neighbor’s lights have been extinguished and those that remain
on are(nt) suspects in infamy.
Your manager steps outside w/ her 16-year old
daughter’s baby making baby noises to make her
presence known, talking shit about you in her head
her heart lead not by intuition but emotion,
eyeing your lights on out the corner of her eye,
wondering where your attendance has been.
You sense this from previous observation and go on
drinking eating living shitting fucking debating
meditating and masturbating; being all-pervasive;
being all-deluded; victorious; indignant comprehensive luminosity.
That halo lurks ‘round and ‘round for murderers and criminals and prostitutes but the only ones that
got bagged were the Buddhas.

Fingerprints of the Night
Figures plotting murder in the shadows
of the front yard of your apt. building.
Meth, Craq, Spice smoke rising from
cracks in the concrete of your parking-lot
& drive-way & sidewalk transforming into
clawed lizards that scale the walls of your
being as it dissipates.
Gunshots split the noise and your cranium.
Your neighbor’s daughter drunkenly strolls
into your bedroom and disrobes,
bringing her naked body to bed w/ you,
her boyfriend passed out and inebriated
at her mother’s house.
Light forms fell short of brightness and
reached out for distractions.
Cliques get their door kicked in
by cops w/ dicks who point rifles scream whips,
then bag all the drug-money, ice-cream, and tricks.
The nights scream w/ rage as transformations fail.
Look at all of us.
Gaze on these faces where not a scar untouched.
Look deep into each individual’s telescope and
see what universe their story might bring.
The children sleep and the parents rest.
The sky falls while the ocean rises and celibates sing.
Your adopted father passed away some time ago
and left behind a leviathan.
You awaken the next morning to the sunrise &
sirens w/ that woman still next to you,
her belly full of infants crawling through beer
bottles and shot-glasses, and letting her sleep
step over her naked body to piss out the rest of
the kids that didn’t make it into recycling.

—–
William Jackson was born and raised in Los Angeles, CA. He’s given readings around L.A. at places like The Goethe Institute, Chung King Road in Chinatown, and Lawrence Asher Gallery. He’s been published in The Evergreen Review, Gambling the Aisle, Papercuts, Tenement Block Review (U.K.), RipRap, and Ginyu Magazine (Japan). Will enjoys cold sake and long walks on the fire.

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Vagabond City Literary Journal

Founded in 2013, we are a literary journal dedicated to publishing outsider literature. We publish art, poetry, and creative nonfiction from marginalized creators.

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