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