Whitney Jones Olson
Biography of Whitney Jones Olson
23, married, four step-children who live with their mother, moving to NYC in August, just finished Grad school, not an academic no gods no, anarchist (local government believer) , agnostic, respectful of all the peaceful, deeply saddened by the others. Writing since fifth grade, work as an editor, reading the classics as a way to get through the summer.
i would make this artful, but it just doesn't matter right now.
Whitney Jones Olson Poems
i am taken aback; i question your strength, your revelations; your integrity.
Your Fine Charms
Maple Marble your fine overtones, like Marshall Fields in Chicago where you wrote an essay of political analogy, and became The Pro,
Linger, honey tiptoe stand massage unrequiting trees i'll rub oil in your arches
You pace over me measured proportionate muscular worshipping Just read me with the mind of a nympho
Protest Against Homogenization
'Tis my spleen 't makes me write, A mummified epileptic screaming somewhere in Mexico Licking eyeballs and 700 piercings
Dreaming / Waking
Saw you on a Sunday - reading your Bible, bought you some candy - got cuffed to your chair.
Let The Circle, Canto Ii
The final lecture, it has concluded, with a scathing evaluation of its fearful leader, and I have glided easily to the fountain of Venus who has drawn herself on all my time here,
She hears the Carmina Burana behind her eyes, the oratorio asks to be pulled from her / into text / She breaks the law two hours after waking, sits in linen through the afternoon / pontificates /
It Is, Abstractions
Your Name here: Error code 2, please contact your program manufacturer at Your Phone #, here: That, sexless progeny (who disgorged me)
It Is, Beginnings
As your focus is narrow, so you may perfect but little a camel from a Biblical gate As your focus is full, so you may stitch their shrouds As your focus is nothing, so you may birth + be + become
Just an arch in the spine of a widow – Just the hem of a skirt in the distance – Just the stain of disappointment in his headlights – Just the shape of your sigh in the mirror –
On Ginsberg's America,6th Part
Shelter me free in my aberrations, America. Let me consume in the fleshes of your brilliant tortured boys; Let me revel in the pirouettes of your naïve moonlit girls; Indulge me these, America.
On Ginsberg's America,5th Part
Oh, God-sick America, bless your heart, You sincere sweet ragged old mistress, Of paradoxes, duplicity, soaring birth rates, And the need to legally tranquilize,
On Ginsberg's America,4th Part
Your, soulless sycophants, carelessly toss aside my indifference. Your, precious pedagogues, misunderstand. Your, noncompliant nihilists, dissemble as I peer. Your, meritorious malcontents, shield me in their desolation.
She hears the Carmina Burana behind her eyes,
the oratorio asks to be pulled from her / into text /
She breaks the law two hours after waking,
sits in linen through the afternoon / pontificates /
wonders about abstractions
tell me, tell me, about Art and Honesty / she shows you /
Rational is an amiable liar, quiet in his paradoxical prison /
She tells you.
In the Secret Garden, 'there is a girl that no one sees,