CHOPSchticks
Two oblivions on the set of a film about makeup-
wearing oblivions attending a wilderness
retreat. Several clowns lost on the way to a birthday
party where they’re scheduled to be used
as stripper poles. Wet socks in a frying pan. The sun
rising ripeishly into the sky above Jerusalem,
New Jersey. Two oblivions sharing one pair of pants
fall into a barrel that someone has left
in the middle of nowhere, ruining
the nowhere. Sausage links and paddy fences.
A group of celebrities fighting over who should be
the first to autograph a pancake. Note: the frying pan
is cold. Two oblivions in a shed, one goat, etc.
The sun rising over Elvis, New Jersey
looks down and sees the moon slipping on a banana
peel as it exits the night. Twelve hundred
and seventy-eight jelly beans count the spaces
in an empty glass jar. Everything deserves
a punchline. One silence, two goats, four sheds
and a naked oblivion walk into a bar where God
tells jokes three nights a week, and so on. Farting
oblivions rise above Brussel Sprouts, New Jersey.
A red moon juggling bananas. Three clowns
marching through a wilderness in search of themselves.
One says to the others: You fellas ever wonder why
the frying pan was cold? They reply: No, but have you
ever seen a barrel ruin a perfectly good nowhere?
THE ANGELS WHO BUILT THE ALPHABET STAIRWAY I MENTIONED IN ANOTHER POEM ARE A FORM OF LIGHT WE CAN’T SEE
I have read the latest version of the bible.
It says that one day soon, every wall we have ever built
will be a memorial to something, to you,
to the futures lost to our choices, to the walls
we have built and the weight they carry.
But there is good news too. In my other studies,
I have noticed that when people write about love,
even if it is no more honest,
they are at least lying from a deeper place.
It reminds me of a quote from the next version of the bible:
Though the stars in my heart are invisible to you
they nonetheless light the way through
the labyrinthine passages I walk inside you.
Just to be clear, I’m not some kind of optimyopic.
I do believe sad things happen in the sky and at
the bottom of the ocean. The heart can feel them all.
But it is hard for me to argue with the logic of nature.
as in: once, long long ago, a creature
leapt from the ground expecting to return
and became the first bird.
Philip Jason’s stories can be found in Prairie Schooner, The Pinch, Mid-American Review, Ninth Letter, and J Journal; his poetry in Spillway, Lake Effect, Hawaii Pacific Review, Pallette and Indianapolis Review. He is the author of the novel Window Eyes (Unsolicited Press, 2023). His first collection of poetry, I Don’t Understand Why It’s Crazy to Hear the Beautiful Songs of Nonexistent Birds, is forthcoming from Unsolicited Press. For more, please visit philipjason.com.