Amy Jackson

Writings 2005

 

Train of Thought (What You Don't Know)

 

i'm a walking paradox
on my way to the car
In my dreamy state
I'm awake still dreaming in traffic

A long white expanse
With its red lips
Meanwhile
each of us in our little car boxes
Our little worlds

It's another beautiful day dawning
At the Department of Energy
The geese are on the lawn near the barricades

good morning, you
you're a Mama's boy, now
your mouth out full in a wide pink yawn
your mouth down slugging the travel mug

a strange place again in my mind
a languid dream
a baker's dream of delicate recipes
a welder's dream of merging disparate elements
in the night of dreaming during the day
plumb the depths of night
night work through grooved pavement
Bump Groove Grind
i want to make the signs
still feeling it, blind
still steering

the peaceful state of Genevieve
the colors of the walls change when she touches them
and on their own
the telephone poles switch to schooner masts
and she's off in the middle of your conversation

the Moon is waiting for the night trains
to fly to it
for the airplanes to glide on silver rails

make some zig zags in the parking lot on my way in
sudden as a laugh as light as feeling 19
all the unused dental floss waiting inside
in their encouraging little boxes
the best intentions of the world curled up on the spools
your dirty ambush a red bruise all up against my sex
burning glare and spilling your shit out at me
you have no idea
explosive sex in his mouth
to find out you're 19

write some positive erotica
a long silk love letter to my red
make it right again
I'm tipping it over now you can't see
you don't even know me
I'm ripe and I deserve to be

me now again with my jumble head
my circus head in the jumble field
the circus fields
the sea fields
in the picnic bed with the bit torrent on
download this
the coal-black birds in the jumble house of the tumbledown mind
the jumble mind

I sure could use a ukelele and some barbecue
a moonlit night and a very slow dance
under shimmer trees
the train comes just then and the bar goes down
holy roller holy sweep streaming and it's gone
the shortest trains now
for lack of passengers
ghosts of 40s A trains
and red cabooses
jasmine train
jazz invention
engine
jazz freight train

the velvet underground of your mouth
bliss charter
crystal transport

the train of your understanding
across some nameless bridge
some damned fool done crossed it out

all the nice birds
the sweetness returns
from Cabin John to Glen Echo
all above the swirling green
bird on a quest
meanwhile the clouds
above the traffic stopped
some smooth building interrupts
the pieces come in backwards
making more sense surreal

the sky is full of clouds for Howard Finster
he's up there putting faces on each one
he says get back on with your zig zag, girl
get back in with your light

equanimity to the bubbling sea of us
humanity
planet bulging with veins and lightning
quasars at night
electric light still a miracle somehow

now that's some kind of serious wonder

rinse, repeat

 

© May 23 , 2005

Amy Jackson

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Return

 

He fell from the night
Into her eyes
Finding the shadow that chased her
Deep within her spine
Followed the spark up into her mind
Where it split and cracked into lightning

He fell from her mind to
Whisper within her thighs
He rose upon her and became
Permanently entwined

She woke from life to be aware
That she was alive

Her burnt offering in the sand before
She rose toward the Sun
A woman in the sky
She stretched her legs in the light
Fresh-faced supplicant

With the Hawaiian bracelet on
Remembering the Kona leaves
She twisted and was gone

 

© July 23 , 2005

Amy Jackson

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Notes from Two Planes


circus waltz
Lelylaan
the insides of clouds
insides of dreams
underbelly Heathrow

Araucaria Braziliensis
Now I must see this tree
How much of what John Muir saw still is?
glaciated landscape
Muir never saw above the clouds as we do now
Folded clouds
Cloud worlds
Cloudscape
Folded world

Amsterdam Schiphol

Why for me each loving hurts
Mortality and yearning of you and you
The losses of all of you inside me
To love with a bruise for a heart
Even to fall in peace
Only to feel the fear

It's not real
It can't be real

Or suddenly you'll be gone from me

Dogs and cats are universal
So much of what I know of unconditional love

She said there should have been joy in your eyes
Will there ever be anything to heal the lack of it?

© July 24 , 2005

Amy Jackson

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Of Simultanaety


The way Matisse sketched the delicacy of his grandson's smile
While his daughter paid the price of French resistance
In the hands of the Gestapo
Tied to the four legs of a table
While the album on the gramophone was played
To cover her screams
Someone listening to the same album
Somewhere else at the same time
Remembered peace
And dancing

While the second of two World Wars was raging
Bonnard was writing his letters and painting
And Matisse was studying trees

Long before the Spanish Civil War
That killed so many philosophers and poets
Long before Hitler tested his Blitzkrieg first on Madrid
The Alhambra was filled with people from all over Granada
The water was flowing from the lion's mouth
Whispering the name of Federico Garcia Lorca
The night he celebrated the gypsies

The sandstone alley in Salamanca
Echoes the lonely man at his piano
Serenading lovers he'll never know
Two balconies down

The way fruit describes itself with its smell
Far from the ravages of war
The Alhambra evolves stillness
Water flows from the lion's mouth
The sandstone absorbs the whispers of time
To timelessness

 

© August 13, 2005

Amy Jackson

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Mama Africa


How beautiful she is!
Her clothes are bright and magnetic as the Sun.
When she speaks I hear the echoes of French tongues
And the way she says Africa is full of joy.
I am from the Congo, she says,
And I relate the 8 week course in African history
When I learned the Belgians were so brutal.
She does not acknowledge this, but says how
Beautiful Africa is, and how in the Congo
They have every kind of water:   ocean, lakes and
Fleuves, fleuves - Rivers!
And the fish we have here are not so good
But the fish there are ... !

Do you like to cook?   Oh, yes!
When I cook the fish I cut them and stuff them with spices
I rub them with oil and cook them on the barbeque.
Where I babysit the children want me to cook for them every week!
Can you find all the spices you need here?
Oh, yes!  

And I think of all the spice trades and the ancient markets
Of Africa and glossy beads and coins, coffee beans and fabrics
And the hum of all the people trading.
And now in their little bottles she can find all she needs at the store.
This makes me very happy.

She has been to every country that speaks French.

She says when I go to Africa that the people will show me
All the best places to go, and she lights up.
There is a sparkle and magic and thankfulness in her eyes
I can see and feel Africa pulsing within her because she is from it and
It is part of her every cell and breath.

We talk about knee surgery and wrists and getting better eventually.

How beautiful she is!  

She is Africa!

 

© August 18, 2005

Amy Jackson

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Formulas for You

Your name is not your real name
Your real name is a formula for you
A signature made of energy and blessings
Only God and perhaps you can derive it
As you grow
as will this poem
as I begin to know you

A formula for the dark green moss that grows under the oak tree finding North
For the rich wet earth and the frog that burrows there knowingly
For a lost ship that seeks its home and adventure simultaneously
And sails in the clouds as well as the undersea

For the philosopher poets who shaped their understanding
in the corners of cafes and bars
and on cushions and couches after that
who found words to describe the indescribable
and all these blind ones with their hands on the elephant
feelings of loss and change
hope for mankind
love and mystery coexisting contradicting
a single bit, a curious letter, a piece of glass caught in the wind
a combination of characters they found the keys
to a new world of their own defining
they created it with their minds

Then went off into the rain
with a fire inside for the first time
That is not unlike the fire in your eyes, the fire in your heart
the fire of your understanding imagining it

There is the man who followed the Gypsies
as a man a boy as an old man
Who donned coat and mask and wig and became a changeling
And the Fool
Showing the people themselves in every facet of every face he became

The gentlest rivulet finding a path to the woman's heart
To the child's heart
That human gesture that is glowing profound
Of inspiration!

And when I sense you
There are unlocking doors and windows
Unfolding paths in the dark ether
As we enjoin and become part of everything in joy
Those brief moments that fall or fly learning it

You're deep as languages deep as formulas
what is the combination for you? for me?
what it is we seek?

Your anger quick as matches quick as mine
your wonder quick as sorrow

Maybe we're seeking the same answer
asking the same question somehow
we just don't know how to shape the marks
that's all (how to know it when we've found)

Maybe I have something you're looking for
maybe it's a match to something you already have
something you lost in yourself that was left there
wandering
looking for it's other half

(they try but they can't take it
it grows back as quickly as they snatch it)

maybe my soul is some sort of looking glass crystal
mirroring the ancient watery
(we're all ancient as reptiles as trees)

Maybe we're looking for it to feel a certain way
a sense of belonging, for it to stick and stay
instead of slippery like sound waves down the street remembering
like light on water breaks rippling fractals
doorknobs made of petals
the flip sides of feelings flipping back

We know deep down we've found it

You have found your name
You are finding your name
You will become your name
It will change with you
Until you've become part of it's peculiar combination lock opening
you can almost hear yourself saying it when you're dreaming it
to describe who you will be

The essential you

That is how you are made

By you

Scientist in your laboratory
I can hear you laughing
But not a madman

© October 22 , 2005

Amy Jackson

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