People, I Know People & Other Poems
By Mike James
People, I Know People
The neighbor who drags a cedar log behind him with a rusty link chain
His mother who watches him from her front porch and shakes her tiny head
The lady who snorted Ajax because she saw it in a movie
The guy whose ninja skills are reserved for nervous breakdowns
The several who dive headfirst into every spider web
Those who love purple wildflowers and stop their cars along roadsides to pick them
The ones who’ve helped me find house and door and house key after too many sad drinks
The few who confess hang ups and first thoughts to any pair of ears
One fellow with a pet crow and no good story of how that came
Another who still hand rolls cigarettes to save money and because he likes the discipline
The three or four who make acrobatic shadows as routine
Those who named children after starlets instead of relatives
Marlena, the only one who named herself
St. Arthur Russell
Take a pitchfork as your dance partner to a vogue ball. People might gasp.
Ya think? Dancing with an object is a skill. Ask a countrified Fred Astaire.
Dance down a sidewalk in Chelsea, but, seriously, stay out of the street.
You know how traffic is. Horns and taxi profanity make noise to live.
If you can dance to solo cello you have a specific gift. There’s never been a
Countrified cello. At least not yet. You can shout over cello while you dance.
If you sing with only profanity (let prepositions go) you know exactly how
The world is. Sing under breath as you dance in any club you can get in.
The best dance club is one where the beat is sweat heavy, strong. You get that.
Not always true, but a first thought. Ginsberg blessed first thoughts with yes.
It’s Lovely, At Last
for Marko Pogacar
To be frank:
I didn’t owe anyone anything.
The world came and went without me.
I never put a feather back on a bird,
No matter how bright the sun
Or blue the feather.
All my thoughts happen one at a time like an old faucet,
Dripping in an empty house.
When the circus passes, I go for a walk in the other direction.
Popcorn is bad for teeth, after a certain age.
There’s enough salt in a teacup of tears to suit me, anyway.
If I need more there’s the ocean,
Farther away than recent tears.
The ocean is on the other side of the closest mountain.
The mountain is far away, but close to the sky.
I often walk toward the mountain
With my fistful of feathers
Looking for a blue bird.
Temporary Keys
What if every house key only worked for a little while?
What if one day each of us was locked out?
What if we always carried a down jacket for any cold night it happened?
What if our jacket became a blanket, then a pillow?
What if our jacket sleeves were colorful, substitute wings?
Mike James makes his home outside Nashville, Tennessee and has published widely. His many poetry collections include: Journeyman’s Suitcase (Luchador), Parades (Alien Buddha), Jumping Drawbridges in Technicolor (Blue Horse), First-Hand Accounts from Made-Up Places (Stubborn Mule), Crows in the Jukebox (Bottom Dog), My Favorite Houseguest (FutureCycle), and Peddler’s Blues (Main Street Rag.) He served as an associate editor of The Kentucky Review and currently serves as an associate editor of Unbroken.