Three Poems
by Jory Mickelson
[No matter how often & how far]
No matter how often
& how far you digress,
no matter how many
clever improvisations you make,
so long as you patiently
bring yourself back. I had
one serial talent, but
no one knew what
it was. It was being— never being able to be pinned down. The more you probe
the more you find
the whole world
incomprehensible. I can be
anything, just look at me—
I am my own reference
& letter of recommendation
& withering critique.
My work, my life
has a certain distance.
I am the quintessential
American—more and more
of me to come &
the growing terror
of my smallness.
Give me a crowded city,
dirty apartments stacked
to the sky, floating
with roaches. They are
something to say hello to
when I walk in the door.
[I’m so tired of elegance]
I’m so tired
of elegance, so I use
all my weaknesses
& desperate feelings.
Paint and repeat,
until popularity itself
becomes a clone, thin
as a screen. Thinner.
We know an artist is
a negative
space defined
just as easily by
absence. How to
transform all my
emptiness into—
a territory
where many things happen
within the borders.
[Wasn’t I a little bit]
wasn’t I a little
bit of music humshape
of cricket leg rubbing
against the frog’s
swallow tunescape
of moonlight of August heat
and pond’s humidity
I’ve never lived
outside the city
so my song’s just
conjecture unless we
listen to the sirens’
syncopation and the argument
through the wall somewhere
my psalm’s still
circulating in the busbrake
in the way the escort
rubs their blackened eye
