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October Featured Writer: Nancy Johnson James 

River Rock
 

It’s hot
the breeze just lifts and settles.
A man sways to dangerous angles.
The kids look quick but play anyway.
A possum half crushed is
half alive so the guy gets a crowbar.
He walks stiff hoping he will just die
without intervention.
This is what I mean exactly.
Wind shifts scent like piss
like weed, perfume, exhaust
all through here.
The KFC fan blows across the park
so who knows how the flowers smell?
Like greasy chicken and cigarette butts?
Like dirty diapers and beer cans?
I’ve waited centuries now.
I signed 679 petitions last week.
Sitting and clicking and clicking then
yesterday I found a stone so smooth
I cried and cried.
It touched dry in my pocket
pulling me down with the weight
of my skin absorbing
more light than ever now.
I touched hot lying on blacktop
oiled up to bake darker and darker still
but living whole, not tragically outlined
post impact , post crowbar, bullet
or psychic noose pulled tighter over time.
This is history.
Even the green grass holds
broken glass in light in dew
I glimpse the future shimmering.




Borders
 

Smooth ice stretched tight to the horizon
               feeling vast but a few steps more and it’s another fake thing
I’m not lying.
You can’t trust a page
              or a word, not from here.
Grass pops up where you don’t expect it
             and nobody hardly says a word.
 My friend raged about America
            so long even after She  tried to eat him up.
 I jumped in to chew
             that time then we turned and broke through
             then we turned and kissed Her square on the lips
             because we really do love that crazy chick.  God bless her.
No really --- God please.  She’s got a superior superficial –ness about her edges
             But she’s not all bad.  
There’re trees in the middle where people meet an eye.
Okay yes, everyone hates everyone, but not really some of the time.
Granny said it was just fear.  But she’s gone now,
             and I know now,
No ma’am, it’s just hate.
But I’m so in love with what we could be,
              it really messes me up.
It still feels like home even when it’s a mess.
             This place belongs to me.
And that’s why I’m staying! 
Even if the water turns bright blue and smells,
Even if the teacher needs sniper training,
Even if there are so many secrets the secrets are secret  and
             no one really know what all was said, or done. 
I don’t know how else to describe this relationship and
            advice columns are not equipped for this line of inquiry.
Some patriotic songs choke me up and others
            just choke.
 
 


​
from And They All Lived 

 
44                                                                                                                                      47

A custom                                                                                                                          Stroke the tangle
Begins between us                                                                                                          Split the black
Sugar                                                                                                                                 Sway the scent
Sprinkle the sweet slowly                                                                                                We pray                                                                      
Then say that we traditionally say                                                                                  Sacred, sacred
This is for what passes between us                                                                               Holy     curling rolling 
                                                                                                                                            We gaze               inhale   catch 
43                                                                                                                                        Push        hold
A little sugar between us
Then pull the stinger straight out
The strain doesn’t last                                                                                                       45A
But the memory does something                                                           
Dot a bit on the tip                                                                                                             He wants to know 
The savor is there                                                                                                              All I’ve seen 
String the blossoms                                                                                                          Asks what I remember  
Hang all over                                                                                                                      Not flashes
                                                                                                                                             Details 
45                                                                                                                                         The color of tooth
Touch tips                                                                                                                           How the leaf bent
She wanders the tangled wood                                                                                        What shade black 
Searching for a soul snatched quick                                                                                What face moon 
The sorority grows
The sorrow mounts and grabs                                                                                          49
Hair in two fists
A woman wails then burns                                                                                                 20 eye rolls later
Sharpening the stone                                                                                                          I cock my hip and turn
                                                                                                                                               He has nothing to say
                                                                                                                                               So I fill the gaps
                                                                                                                                               With snide remarks
                                                                                                                                               We lean in sharp
                                                                                                                                               
Baring teeth growling down
                                                                                                                                               Is that a tear?  Tooth suck.  


​
80
Every  thing is about God
The ants racing the
Dogs tearing flesh
The children picking at scabs
All of it sacred
Even the slobbering cat
Even the chattering whore
Even the silent drum
Cup your hands
Hold dry leaves
Breathe
Crush
Let the wind take it




​
​
For The Record or
Making It Plain

 
​
I do not want to be a hashtag.
I do not want to be a tragic and disturbing video.
I do not want a street altar or a t-shirt.
I do not want to debate the value of my existence.
I will not commit suicide,
                not in custody,
                not out of custody.
I do not want to be in custody.
I do not have a gun.
I have a mind, a soul, a pen, a picture.
I will not rest in peace.
I do not want thoughts and prayers.  Thanks though – really.
I am aware that my vocabulary
                can’t save me,
                obedience can’t,
                money can’t
                fear, prayer, innocence….
This is a corner.
I am cornered and behaving accordingly,
Yet with surprising kindness considering the history.  
Picture


​Nancy Johnson James is a poet and educator in Oakland, CA. She attended Sarah Lawrence College and has an MFA from Saint Mary’s College of California. One of the poetic highlights of her life was being a part of the first class of Poetry for the People with June Jordan as an auditing student at UC Berkeley way back in the day. She believes the world needs artists to envision a free and just future for us all. 

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Email

aspasiology@gmail.com
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