poem today (Jason was a cutter)

Jason was a cutter

Jason was a cutter before he cut into his first pomegranate ,

soft and giving, the fruit bled his own handling of things,

stinging his raw fingernails and finding that right pain

something you suck away without being Morrison,

or any vegetable he might be getting tire of.

Jason would walk for miles for that pomegranate ,

and he'd pay anything and call that cuting, the art of life,

sections of sweetness even ripening the sky

when he got too open with me and I left

like a balloon that disappears. I had too much wind.

Jason didn't have to eat his own liver, lung, or lips

he just kept replacing his arm and his leg and his chest

for getting to the middle or the center of what was picked,

boxed like a memory then out in the open,

this fruit was his, and his taste improved,

and sometime I'm going to tell him,

no poem, no beer, that I want him back.


s.m.g.