Jeffrey Dunn's collection of poems is accessible, varied, personal, and American as a Blue Plate Special. Available through Indie Bound, Barnes and Noble, and Amazon.
Coming soon!
Cup of Joe
I
I am growing old with a cup of joe.
I am looking through the plate glass of the Blast Off Bakery at a crumbling concrete pillar supporting America’s sclerotic arteries.
I am a maker, a teacher, and a shaker.
I am a Christian.
I am Buddhist.
I am a Marxist.
And I am a Citizen of the World.
I was born among the best minds of a previous generation and a Buster Brown shoe box shooting through the purple haze at the darker side of a failed intervention.
I was baptized in holy water from the River Jordan, and Sunday Schooled on the catechism of predestination.
I sat on the floor of education’s hallowed halls, put my head between my knees, and kissed my ever-lovin’ ass goodbye.
I was sent home from school because the President was dead, and my untutored, angelic mind wondered if that was good.
I was served t.v. dinners on t.v. trays in front of black and white, righteous family-hour broadcasts with the June Taylor dancers spread out like some chrysanthemum of femininity calling to Blakean intimations of puberty.
I completed jigsaw puzzles of Rockwellian Americana while Harlem and Bed-Stuy burned, brother Evers was shot dead, Elmo Lewis died at the bottom of a pool; Watts burned, brother Malcolm was shot dead, the Kozmic Pearl got smacked; Newark burned, brother Martin was shot dead, Jimi James mixed bennies and jesus juice, threw up, and drowned; Detroit burned, brother Robert was shot dead, and the Lizard King lost his Texas Radio signal, the doors of perception slammed shut in his face.
I was asked not what my country can do for me, but what I can do to maximize the return on my investments derived from the sweat of America’s workers, the bodies of America’s women, and the tears of America’s children.
And I sit benevolently, eyes wide open.
No Name Lake Coronach 7
You descend
a rough, angled trail,
worn against the grain,
makes a precipitous drop
the black pine branches,
sharp and twisted,
cut the light into shafts
dumbly suspended dust,
a late summer winding sheet
creased by your descent
then, the encompassing circle,
No Name Lake,
erased by shadows
gear set down and line cast out
across the dead stillness,
and cast out and cast out.
