Whitney Jones Olson Poems

walking, along
and wondering, who
that young man is, there
in the shadows, and
...

Words - are a
tumbledown romance
a fantastic interlocking, and
an aesthetic.
...

A mew, an assertion, a confusion on verse.
A submission; audition; insatiable thirst.

A tremble, a shiver, a sliver of fear;
...

My everyday rush - is not only the air in the leaves, not only
the steady progression of cylindrical confessionals, the
fibers fluxes and cascade of tumbling icons - for which eye
have taken recently a hostile merger, (an ocular coup, of sorts) , No...
...

It is
no more my
my discernable day.
Than is the quilted erosion through madcap teacups' hedonistic
...

Standing outside in the American evening
I am at once cold, naked, exposed;
tired of making excuses for myself, behavior, and
compatriots to these Academic walls,
...

And yet, a refuge form the cold shoulders
I find you. America!
Land of mad rambling saints, and
drizzling caramel abounding fruits plentiful;
...

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.
...

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,
...

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.
...