the poetry knook :: the poetry of stephen m. james :: indianapolis, indiana » memory

There is no animal

Stephen M. James — Sat, 30 Jun 2007 23:00:04 +0000

There is no animal
except in the coal
powering this magnetic platter
only minerals in this production
seduction on plates of
power, porn, and politics:
creativity on a shoestring of abstract bits and
pieces spinning around, around
for there is no memory of before, random
access from any phone, wall, lap:
shuffling forward, backwards, waiting
as a vegetable, unmoving,
for the next quest for new

We yelled for the sake of yelling our favorite songs

Stephen M. James — Mon, 30 Nov -0001 00:00:00 +0000

warm and cold is the life.
The blue LCD lingers even with friends,
my friends-my (saving me from the) screen
savers, freezing, cold, heartless–
the silence of mp3s and IMs,
the rock concert, the heavy metal hanging from the lashes, lulling to sleep–
s l o w i n g
the beams of light from reaching my eyes:
the red cheeks of winter night out glow fire and wash over the goodbye with a
“goodbye” faded with l o n g i n g,
for the radio interferes with the conversations
and with the passenger-seated soul
beside me
gliding down the interstate, the back-roads, the melting, the remembering

Words: $.99/lb.

Stephen M. James — Mon, 30 Nov -0001 00:00:00 +0000

gone are the gourds and
killed is the kale,
squashed are the spouts
and beet are the beans
for you’ve dived into an endive,
done what you’ve mustard
and produced a leek in our potato eyes
dripping to our collards,
thought this might not be your cucumber
to return to peachland,
but it t’was.
your wit will be rooted in us and
I’d cauliflower a weed next to you any spring,
seemed like last year was a short harvest,
but what else shallot I do?
tomato is another day, yes,
but doesn’t asparagus the burden of
carrotting you in memory but not in our salad,
even when the chards settle
and we follow your furrow to our own garden.

Every time I stop typing

Stephen M. James — Mon, 30 Nov -0001 00:00:00 +0000

Every time I stop typing you are there
Throwing me in a knapsack and carrying me
Down the street of my past memory
Crying. Couldn’t be more sadistic or kinder.
Pajamas, playgrounds, tuxes at a party,
Jess, Heaz, Ross, Jaz, Beck and Mir,
I’ve constructed a trance that reminds
Me of what was and still is in all its glory
And cancels my omnipresent burden and worry
That production is the only good use of time.
Recalling you and me: our one, now separate, story:
Composed music of the soul that intricately rhymes.