beautiful eyes see the ugliness of the world
a [tall] woman in a blue polka dot dress stand[s] alone by a window in a
library[. She’s] looking off somewhere, hands holding each other,
nervous and unresponsive to the voice that’s speaking to her.
decisions [are] being made but no options [are] being offered.
calculated mistakes yielded results you couldn’t have bribed for.
we missed you he said and showed you the hand-cuffs.
clouds over head running in circles yet nothing descending.
powerful gusts of wind randomly lift your thoughts above the
trees allowing you to [temporarily] see all that’s around you
for as far as a hundred years.
meditate silently amongst the piles of burning flesh.
wa/o\nder excitedly like bees gathering pollen from flames
[no thought best thought]
paralyzed by the site the sun setting in our eyes while [slowly] rising in
Delayed sensations. (the kiss on my cheek wasn’t felt till [years] later)
thank you she said and walked quickly to the left where her fears couldn’t
a mind that can’t sleep plagued by nightfall and the sound of heavy
guitar-riffs from the heavenly spheres
chatter (x12 ½ )
searching through visions on a rusty cart like flipping though files of light
alarms going off rings like Saturn’s appearing around your head like
sun-glasses, esoteric sun-glasses
she plays with herself while I plug the head-phones in
stroking my beard. behind me. eye’s looking for a hiding plac e.
the sound of coins dropping into a machine receive slips cry purity
excuse me I said but no one saying bless you
speech muffled to we [who are] hung like roses floating in blurred lights
forgetting to end.
the key to wisdom unarising we placed in the left hand.
decaffeinated illusions knock gently at your} door by their
sound begging for a place to sleep. [oh!]
the sound of drugs dropping bring
ing the feet running.
talking to herself speaking into the computer screen.
searching for a way out every
turn and decision leading you further inside.
evolution a drinking-contest.
hand turning pages pages pages
a vagrant with a sleeping bag slung over his shoulder walking
down a cold street empty except for the young girl dancing
in a street-light.
no more excuses I agree and briefly look over my left shoulder
to a dark body that may never [actually] be.
William Jackson was born and raised in Los Angeles, CA. He’s given readings around L.A. at places like The Goethe Institut, Chung King Road in Chinatown, and Lawrence Asher Gallery. He’s been published in The Evergreen Review, Gambling the Aisle, Papercuts, Tenement Block Review (U.K.), RipRap, and Ginyu Magazine (Japan). Will enjoys warm sake drunk from a skullbowl as he strolls through cities of murderers, mystics, and mayhem.
Show William some love via PayPal at deca.logue(at)yahoo(dot)com.