Jackson Riley Poems

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
...