Jackson Riley

it’s to my own face
I hold the phone like a nine-inch knife,
quietly shaking/hesitating,
because
...

it’s one of those monumental (nigh impossible) tasks;
one of Hercules’ labors.
tougher still than those age old questions:
what is love?
...

it’s a stupid kind of loneliness.
an intentional loneliness.
a stupid kind of intentional, confidently optimistic loneliness.
the loneliness of a browneyed boy
...

into her perfection I will plunge
(with naught but a flame,
and my indefatigable tongue.
then I’ll spin her spirit like a spider
...

a friend of mine
asked me what my dream girl would look like.
well, Mel,
...

-awww, hell
I said to the disconsolate creature walking beside me
through the park.
...

nobody wants to be forgotten.
nobody wants to die when dead.

an artist is just a bit braver: they leave little snapshots
...

I’ve noticed when a person doesn’t know what to write about
they tend to write about having writer’s block.
I do it, too
only when the pot and bourbon won’t work,
...

walking along.
meandering, really.
head full of deep thoughts, barely
looking at
...

I’ve often wondered
how a coiled, vibrating earthmetal can
grab hold of a man’s soul
and bend it and twist it and forcefully rip it
...

like the smallest bee
finds its way to the flower,
so love finds the heart.
and even nature
...

so,

I’m searching for sincerity
and simplicity
...

one lightning, insane moment
the first mate flotsamed.
the furious arms
legs
...