Right Out To the Edge
by Porsche Jones
|Right out to the edge.
Leaning into the stars, I cling to Sumeru.
I have kissed Surya, but I shudder now in the glittering dark.
My lips are a coin, left in the sun,
Laid on the cold, hard stone, to suck in a warm breath
And hold it closed.
Due to the specific stubborness of marble,
And it's proximity to the earth,
The auditorium downstairs is 12 degrees colder than the aquarium.
It is dark.
It is still.
Blue light comes in the windows through the rain
Like the sound of water from afar--
chilled, and supposedly holy.
This is where I have left my ghost. Only here.
Are you horrified when I tip into the gorge? Or are you jealous?
I hold the pose--one second, two seconds, three, five, eight, thirteen, twenty one
And that is where I ceased counting.
Do you understand? I have to trigger your alarms--I have to press against the glass!
I need to go right out to the edge!
Explaining compulsion to you is explaining fire to a blind orphan slave, chained in a
But it is an albatross that is vomiting my liver!
I have to stay here! My desperation, like a carnivorous fish, will swallow us both.
You are already in pieces in it's belly.
Can you conceive of the fury that light and snow and consciousness bring me?
Can you sense my connection to Shiva, or my nearness to free fall?
This is higher than you've ever been, this is beyond clinical, this is where reptiles
walked before time could be counted.
I can't come back. My clothes don't fit.
Not the First Time, I Hear (A Love Poem)
by Porsche Jones
Slapping steel together like a gunshot
--Stock and barrel--
In no other way will sleep occur, that is,
The alternative release of tension
Involves a nitrocellulose reaction.
Hot, abrasive, moving up over a helical groove,
Please change anything. Please destroy everything.
I desire warmth.
(Store damp to prevent accidents)
I need love
(An empty copper jacket, dirty)
Wear me down
I figure, I'm a breech-loading woman; I can handle action;
I can sleep just enough, and with my ears ringing;
But in that sudden burst of force, my expectations are askew.
My hands are burning.
Song For Summer
by Porsche Jones
We have not grown or aged a day since Howl.
We have not exited or entered any rooms through these tall windows or splintered doorways.
A halo of daylight refracts through naked glass, wrapped sometimes coyly in blanket tapestries from India,
(which by the way, is now a high-tech corporate marketplace--Calcutta is troubleshooting your wireless,
barefoot and without kidneys).
The wind groans a little in houses standing against plazas and casinos, held together by Champa and children and Chili Peppers. We make this paste out of organic blueberries and apply it to the joists and girders: blueberry booms, braces and bolsters, plum pillar, post and piling, cucumber and cumquat cantilever, crossbar, crosspiece and column, strawberry shaft, spar, stanchion, scaffolding, scantling, sill, and stringer.
We built this salad on rock and roll.
We fished our clothing from open bazaars, dancing into thrift stores as beetles and emerging dragonflies and lightening bugs, neon and shimmering. We twine our hair together with jazz, gin, and resin, and occasionally Ambien. We shoplift our toilet paper from Mobil station restrooms.
Endless indeed is endless, Ginsberg, "chained to subways for the endless ride from Battery to holy Bronx on benzedrine"---Nostradamus, Ginsberg, or Schrodinger; as if in predicting this you have caused it to be manifest.
We got off the subway today, only to find that we are the earth and the waters, and the subway was getting off of us.
I can see you, leaning back on your elbows,
From across the shore of the lake at sunset--
Your shirt unbuttoned a little, and slouching in summer,
And her crouching behind you, arms around you, flowered dress flopped against the grass.
Derek is a few feet away, grinning--
He's trying to grow a mustache.
Lily looks like a collapsed marionette, holding onto you, smelling like buttercups and jasmine and parking-lot beer.
Maybe later you will climb the water tower, or hike out to the Island you found to start a bonfire on the beach.
Just the three of you.
Nothing is new.
The highlights in your hair are still reminiscent of lemon-blond.
Although you do have to pull on your tie a little now to unbutton your shirt--
and Derek only skates when nobody's watching--
and this time, Lily's bassist boyfriend works at Synatech.
Essentially, however, this summer is every summer. The trees hum with the same wholesome sound when you inhale and hold the sharp, hot smoke that restores the same old awe to your face--and erases you.
When the guitars come out, the same chords form different patterns and the same patterns are filled by different chords.
C has been replaced by D; fireflies have been replaced by fireflies.
This is not the human experience.
The human experience does not creep and flow on a molecular level, ebb and slow in amoebic seriatim.
The human experience does not quivver with the flexuous rhythm of the QT interval and heave into halcyon silence
with the lachrymal lethargy of autumn leaves.
The human experience does not anaphora.
The human experience strums slowly,
and rhymes sea with be.
I strum, plummeting into the waves.
I am still dissecting myself.
I strum, strum, strum, to the ocean and the grave--
Two seas too tempestuous to swim.
The human experience is a whim.
They say if its not ok then its not the end; that always summer follows winter;
And they say it without the vasodilatory pull of the impending null which one is pounded by
When falling through the orbit of planets.
I feel the swing of seasons. I count when you have lost count. I can see summer as a segment of my retina on the hollow curve of an oscillating ellipse, growing red against an aged sun.
Shine a Light
by Porsche Jones
What a week I've had, climbing this cascade of hot ice.
What a year, bleeding from behind the curtain.
What sound signifies
A dozen dozen bulbous lights
Shattering in oblivious sparks
On the growing dark?
Ambiguous and auxilliary, you blink slow and write a message on the sun--
A quiet lie through a sapphire eye, penned in her shade of green.
by Porsche Jones
Darwin laid me on a piano
To see if I could hear.
When I danced, he knew;
And so he fed me to a goldfinch.
Her ponytail was messy, her earrings were mirrors
Her shirt clung and fell like a breathing butterfly
She gripped a microphone, through which I writhed
One long muscle, contracting hard.
I breathed through my skin.
If it rains, I will certainly drown
To the undulating hum of power lines.
A fine, fatty blood mare
Red as earth, gleaming;
I strive for the surface
I push aside everything.
by Porsche Jones
Follow the Yellow Brick of Heroin, or,
I Fucked Your Mother.
Just for a moment today it got quiet
And I got sad.
I had Johnny Cash's version of Hurt stuck in my head all day because of something I read in a book this morning.
When I get distracted by you, I miss my stop on the bus and end up in fucking Tonawanda or something
And the other day I said Fuck in front of a 12 year old and her mom.
Like a dozen times. And I gave someone the wrong change.
Wildcard, were you not gonna tell me?
Were you gonna slide right by and right out and not even let me bring dixie cups to your sister's birthday party?
It's not even about that.
I have fans. Not of my writing or art, my accomplishments or my music, just of me. Of my lifestyle. The Porsche Jones lifestyle. So why do I always feel so awkward and inferior? I'm distracting myself with constant stimulation to compensate for inner emptiness and yet I still think I'm better than you. Milkshake, breakdown, mispelling, flood.
If there are twelve steps, he can do eleven, the seventh being the dick he needs to pull out of his ass. I'm not even about to cross my arms and debate whether he or she should modulate to C or D. I used to get weepy when I sleepy but now I think my hair just gets bigger as I get pissed-er. But all the time I'm listening. WHY AM I LISTENING TO YOU?
Part F, continued.
When I met the man who decides the colors of the lights that hit niagara falls at night, and the order in which they go, and the delay at which they repeat
He said that he bought a dark messy wig because dark messy hair was in,
then his hair got dark and messy
So what a waste of skin
(Like I'm one to judge, death is too good for me. I try and change, but you can lead a horse to water unless you get drunk.)
"We need a public place where the next de Kooning can run into the next Franz Kline and diss the next Jackson Pollack while the next Charlie Parker shoots up in the corner. We can call it Cedar Bar Redux." -Matthew, The Real Paul Anka
You shoulda known by now.
I used to love, I seem to remember, being in the back of your van on acid, I used to love
(and now I am incapable of loving)
He still had clay on his fingers when he raped the art right off the wheel
Part No Shirt, No Shoes, No Entry
Don't count your chickens before fuck you
A bird in the hand is worth fuck you
a penny saved is a penny fuck you.
He Who is Without Sin
by Porsche Jones
My house was made of coal, and it burned long and quietly.
Yours is made of lovely leaded glass.
I see you casting stones.
Its an old cliche, a turn of phrase--
I helped you clean the long, lean window panes.
I stood on ladders.
I worked my shoulders and elbows. I strained, and grunted, and gasped for air.
I never saw inside.
I brought diamonds to your glittering door. You would not let me in.
The old "glass house" phrase reminds us that we should not accuse, lest we be accused.
You bend deep, and dig your fingers in the dirt. You curl them tightly. You bring up shards of rock that cut you. You hurl them with manly force. I see the rage in your reflection. In windows, we are all just smears of light and darkness.
I want to shatter you. I want to show you the cuts and pieces. I tread on pebbles made of sparks.