Jared White     

 

The Red Books

What isn’t never was. How do you make
An opera of a line, a fish in the chest
Because I’m sorry, I felt something, I did
But there’s no future like the present.
Being inspiration, I say my head is inside my head
On the BANK of the RIVER a LADY a CLOAK and a ROAN HORSE
I’m sorry. I was on the bank of the river too.
I saw you float by not looking at me which is why I decided to look at you
What harm could looking do? I is not an opera
And if it were, it would be long, quiet and funny.
The taste in my mouth when I said that
Do I remember was it my saliva tasting itself
Or the bite of your meal you offered, saying “try this”
All I want now is to write about that trying
And then when the waiter brought his famous blood-red martini
And the glass shattered in my hands as I raised it
Without a drop of blood, only the kidding kind
Beyond this blindness what you see and I see
Not who we are is who we are
Urgently
There are other colors in my eyes
Once it was a problem but now I am accustomed to this situation
I get used to the dulling of the senses I write about
As what I say is not what I wrote down
Or is this only how I used to think it worked
Because this is how it used to work
Listening with tiny ears, looking through tiny bug eyes
Words needed rising from their own meaning needing
Like mosquitoes on bushes
Everything starts to look like a poem my wife wrote
I’m not in
Pejorative (but I know what she means
I wish for nothing but what is and will be
And the horror of that possibility
To go to Russia “I was here as the snow fell”
Trees look different now luminously spackled over the underpoem
(And over… And under over under…
Topologically some knots are the same
)
)
I want to stop making crap and start on good stuff
“Sin”
Such as dinner, playtime, nap
Distractions of 2013
A written friendship
-Whistleblowing?-
-Fistractions?-
Laid down on the bed the tank rolled on
Sin Eater
Dildo Machine
Should I grow a mustache? No.
What was it like when I was a saint? I wasn’t for long.
These words need more weirds
I have to start where I stopped and keep going
Like training, as if in six weeks my body could be unrecognizable
And I would know all these new words for things
And I could tell you “this is how, this is what, I am feeling”
Hooligan open wide
A head without a body implies a body without a head
@@@


White

As well as writing poetry, Jared White is the co-owner of the small press poetry bookstore, Berl’s Brooklyn Poetry Shop. He published two chapbooks in 2013, THIS IS WHAT IT IS LIKE TO BE LOVED BY ME from Bloof Books and MY FORMER POLITICS from H_NGM_N Books; both are permanently available to read online, here and here. He lives in DUMBO, Brooklyn with Farrah Field and their fifteen-month-old son named Roman.