How I Learned To Shut Up And Listen

What to say about Rachel who pressed
a dark pistol against her chest and gave up
in the middle of the day at the lakefront—
the hot cutting from tit to ass cheek,
missing all of the organs except her
mind which to this day she coats
in cocaine and sugar daddies.

Or Jean Paul who would tell me
what blow jobs were like when we
were kids, and he'd take advantage
of a smile and feathered hair to laugh
when laughing was inappropriate. His
stories of making it with the girl
who sat in front of us in class
became a form of history when
they found him hung outside
his girlfriend's trailer.

When I hear television news smile
about the tragedies of being alive—
again and again I wonder what
you are doing. The last time
we talked we fucked against
the wall in complete agreement
that whatever it was, was over.
The idea of a heaven everyone
seems to go out of their way
to avoid. The art of darkness.

What to say about the bad things?
And the ones contemplated while
I pretend to not be another asshole
in middle America? I once fell for
a Filipina hooker with blue contacts.
What is wrong with listening instead
of talking into the deaf wind?

Kenneth Clark has lived in most of the southeastern United States. He writes poetry and micro-fiction. His poetry has appeared in Night Train, Poor Mojo's Almanac(k), and Greatest Uncommon Denominator.

Old-Time Religion by Beverly A. Jackson

(originally appeared in Dead Mule)


She loves him as only a Christian woman
can love a man; crucifies him with love,
bears witness to love, kills him with devotion.
She is called Jude. She sings
Jesus Loves Me with a power that
promises He'd darn-sight better.

Her husband leaves at midnight.
She turns in her bed, naked & warm,
to hear him at the gate. Outside,
snow thick as white oleo lies
in slabs under moonlight. His cat crawls
from under the truck & ducks inside
for warmth as he slips out to icy air.

“Jason” she cries. His blue eyes flash
fox-like as he bolts, with her in pursuit.
His foot pumps the gas & the old engine
turns over. Doors locked, he shifts into gear.
Across the snow she runs, breasts bobbing,
legs sprinting, moonlit hair flying behind.

His shoe presses the pedal. She leaps
on the running board. Her ravaged face
presses against his window, a gargoyle’s
mask of furious despair. Her mouth makes
"Jasons" in the air; wide toothy soundless
"O"s against the frosty glass. With arms
embracing steel, her body hugs the cab.

When he picks up speed, she screams,
lets go, falls back into the snow,
chest heaving at the moon, & lies waiting
for the cold to melt her rage.
Her sobs assault the quiet, country night,
curses pitch like arrows after a truck
long out of sight & sound. She knows
she's seen the last of it and him.

In the crisp light of morning, freshly bathed,
and smiling with resolve, she takes his cat
to the pound & goes to church.


Beverly A. Jackson lives in the mountains of Asheville where she writes and paints. Her work appears in many online literary venues and in print. Her blog is at www.beverlyajackson.com and her art can be seen at www.artshackstudio.com.