it was yesterday

in an ice cube

when I saw them in the ice.


when I looked up from the ice water

everyone was singing the same

empty song, as if they didn't

know what time it was.

I couldn't tell if I was alone.


I disappeared, looking at their hands

as they walked

carefully along the beach.


they took my hand

and I felt my breath

catch in the cold.


they took me to John Muir's ghost

sitting on a tree stump

and his eyes were full of fields,

tears, and lost valleys,

rushing water.

he took us to California

(we had a great time.)


I looked out again from the ice cube.

just to make sure.

and I shivered

as they looked

at the empty bar stool blankly,

but no one really seemed

to notice.


they forgot the rule of flight, in madness:

the truth

could not be priced


could not be bartered

for the reality of flowers

or how fun sex was


before the ocean was polluted

and everything wild


and all the money was worth

less than the trees it was

made of


he took one last look at the ocean.

his hand closed over hers.

their hair was long

like a luxury, like fields.

it blew in the wind and

they watched the waves




was all that was left,

glittering on the surf.

keeping warm by staying close.

the concrete and glass was

cool on their backs.

sharing the rest of the air,

the water.


looking up for a planet

to jump to

among all those bright stars

they could no longer see

after the telescopes exploded.




at a time



sometimes maybe they spoke

each other's names,


they held hands.


the winds blew them away.


everyone seemed so blind,

so very



one last look at the ocean





Amy Jackson





Play Dead




roll over, wheeler dealer time,

flick a brick into a spot of crime,

singe the sparkles in her eyes,

sparks from her flying surgeon wild mind,


... cut, while sleeping, winking, fatally,

seventeen and thirty-two dozen,

million-ten silences, scalpels

frozen axle spokes, ruby-studded axes slice

into a single greeting card rainbow,

the gleeful gnome frolicking underneath,

glittering simple man, embracing the

fetid charm of hot pink, and fully-lined,

straight jackets blowing across a glowing emerald lawn,


glinting gumdrop eyelids flower on the sugar-coated screen,

throw them magic money for tasting Mr. Clean,

selling six slick sex scandals with the twist of some hip,

or the slant of her mouth on a zesty chicken wing


freed from the flaming obelisk yet draped in stinking tar

the golden flea he leadeth thee, he bleeding in the sunshine

at twenty-three for free, roll over, quite dead the nimble




Do you mind?







after Tienamen Square, watching CNN

Amy Jackson









she eats flowers on Tuesdays, blue ones, otherwise she doesn't care

her eyes turn blue, flown away the petals, sparks from her tongue


she wakes up late Wednesdays and of course years wondering where she has

dreamed and where she was real, asleep in her screams, tears the sheets of

paper from her dandelion body without a wish


Thursdays she reads the sky-winds, listens to all clouds, nibbling on her

fingers like a squirrel who knows the storm, scatters up her mind to look

across and down, up without ground


the petals are so dry by Friday and on curbs and corners she sells them as

feathers to tourists

to whom everything quaint has a price

and she dance, and she dance, and dance until she float


Saturday her lover haunts her past but does not find her diamonds and her

breasts they bud for him and she swell and bloom with blood


Sundays all is dream of youth and maybe her fruit thrive and

fall into their mouth with truth


the ice of Monday chills her through to sap,

before they leave they burn the harvest remaining,

and he leave her writhing with loss

in the flame of his mouths the vision smelted into blade

for the pruning of her deaths, counter of her cycle





Amy Jackson