Jay Passer
Jay Passer, resident and native of San Francisco, has had work in print and online, appear all over the globe since 1988. He is the author of ten chapbooks, a few still available on Amazon.
will there be poetry
when there are no longer flowers
when honeybees are extinct
the privileged
luxuriating deep underground in their silos
you might be a break in the monotony
a saxophonist encouraging call and response
then you quit smoking for good
while I notice
in the middle of the night
a pair of scissors at my throat
ready to entertain kidneys and liver,
that’s
our girl. some days
she goes by Sunny.
yellow came and told me
paint a dog, find a corner
bodega, steal me some
of them Swisher Sweets, while
red gave me the finger, called
911, kicked me in the shins
to shatter
and shove
black reptilian oaths
vowed in penthouse palaces
back up their
vile asses
whistling pipes
whispering steam
prone on the mattress, breathing in the strangeness
the ceiling like a penalty in the game of visualization
