I FORGOT TO GO BACK
by Jason Joyce
French Peroxide
Bottom of my belly, a mortar,
dusty past lives, lukewarm
remnants, passed-over, synthetic
sandwich pestilence
But bottom lines say take the
destruction slow, balance
the budget, create, destroy.
Rebuild.
Poured passion, continental divide,
moored methodically by a plaster of
peanut butter, her jetty, toast crumbs
in the bed we now share
We assume each
mental institution behind thick trees
wrought with ghosts,
while checking our newsfeeds we miss clues,
obvious subway entrance-sized proof
in the middle of the forest.
You can’t take it with you.
A vision of me drunk, stoking the
campfire outside some summer
lodge, our rehearsal party,
2 A.M., sloppily trying to toss logs,
slumped in a chair, your patience,
friends slumped in solitude, blissful abandon,
this new adventure.
Fearful of denting self-worshiping
celestial virgins’ bright eyes,
who don’t understand the allusion-
with age, we end with less.
Stoned in L.A., I passed out before your call,
the thought: one of us will get the family bible,
woke me up. You
caught a metal sliver from a fire escape, tipsy in NYC;
on the French peroxide bottle you translated aloud: Please recycle,
we’ve got each other is all.
I Forgot to Go Back
I forgot to go
back to the scrum of
settling
A violent, sneezy feeling,
pent up | My uncle knew a guy with
a mental tick, overheard him say it felt
like he could never get a body-wash-slime
feeling to leave his skin
Found home in a suitcase, bars of soap,
tiny devotionals,
the patron saint of elsewhere
A humidity sticking t-shirt,
swimmer’s shoulder, restless when it
comes calling at night-
tiny taps on my steel water bottle, a soft
creak by the front door
Fit to fight a strong current, forget to go back |
You feel it pull too as
we move toward the door, you
can’t take it with you |
Some nights my head is a monster
truck rally
Scavenger Hunt
A vulture atop the past I've outgrown,
chanced a tumble but chose to stay,
buried in desert, an imminent winner at hide and seek,
sun-kissed flesh and other sweets,
Do anything but
bring the scavengers with me when I go
because I'm afraid when they
touch my skin it
will only speak of bone
Do anything but ask
if there is a cult inside of me, one
backed by the pulpit of
cactus prickles, Comanche spirits,
dirt road dust settling and
thunderbirds, our fathers' collective last words
You wake alone in a sea of shiver,
remnant finger taps on your shoulder,
this is where the extra goes
Sorry, and everything else you'd like me to twist along
my tongue, a moth punching
dim dining room light, a love the pillow can't
reach, one that forgets to come back
Please babe, do anything but ask
anything at all but ask
how the room got so cold
Names Other Actions:
Loyal
dog heart,
both your
cheeks red
somewhere
dreams are so
utterly
lonely
we invent friends
Professor Genius
back to
school,
Modern Lonelinisms,
the syllabus
changed
again
Dividing the
twins,
hyphenated
names,
other actions
seemingly proper,
concession
A courtesy
call to
say I won’t
cry in front
of you
putting our pets
to sleep
Sophomore
College colors, clocks, crafts,
estate windows, first drafts
a Kevlar vest to study romance,
idle hands, a gypsy dance
Dorm room devotions,
we said, Oh we can be good again
we can be good.
Near Massachusetts,
we tore apart that museum looking
for where the sidewalk ends, later
at your parent’s cabin,
someone cut the phone lines.
Crushed velvet amusement park
pretty girls in the parking lots
low cut clothes, September.
Busy hands become tired kids in
tourist spots, ceramic bells and broken pots
waiting for a whirlwind of
ambiance.
We wait,
we wait
for it. We’re far too young to
have become this boring.
About the Author:
Originally from Wyoming, Jason Joyce, M.B.A. is a writer, arranger, consultant and optimist who has made it his life mission to never grow boring. You can learn more about his companies, current projects and published work by visiting jasonrjoyce.com or @savageconfetti on Instagram. |
