poem: in this Starbucks

there is too much noise
in this Starbucks
too many voices screeching
in this Starbucks
too much sameness
in this Starbucks
same drab jazz bullshit symphonies

in this Starbucks
there is a long line
in this Starbucks
people cut from similar cloth
in this Starbucks
they queue without question
in this Starbucks
buy the same items each time

in this Starbucks
i use the free Internet
in this Starbucks
cruise for willing partners
in this Starbucks
download hardcore porn
in this Starbucks
write poetry about nothing

in this Starbucks
a girlfriend once worked
in this Starbucks
she’d blow me on breaks
in this Starbucks
we’d fuck after closing
in this Starbucks
she left me for another

in this Starbucks
my world comes and goes
in this Starbucks
i make change for the bus
in this Starbucks
homeless people piss
in this Starbucks
drug deals occur daily

in this Starbucks
sometimes i work
in this Starbucks
make false comments
in this Starbucks
pretend to be someone else
in this Starbucks
realize my life is beige on beige

in this Starbucks
a man greets me
in this Starbucks
speaks incoherently perfect
in this Starbucks
screams about the meaningless of life
in this Starbucks
finally buys a Venti Mocha Frappe
in this Starbucks

righthand angle of a continuous curve

blunt trauma press –

Somewhere in California Jack Henry sits on a bar stool waiting with the patience of monuments, it’s not necessary to know what or who he’s waiting for – that’s his damned business. Jack Henry writes with the passion of an addict about to inhale and the insight of a loner out on a desert highway looking for a ride. In ‘The Right Hand Angle of a Continuous Curve’ Jack Henry continues to seek solace in the memory of the women he never really knew, didn’t really want to know, and a few he knew too damn well. Jack has no qualms about drinking alone, accepting rides from strangers or sleeping in unmade beds. Sometimes it’s easier to just not give a shit. Sometimes it’s easier to stand out on the highway alone . . . sometimes you find a piece of writing with the urgency of a lover about to fuck, and sometimes you get fucked. On the continuous curve Jack Henry’s driving, there are no emergency exits – buckle up.

available at some point in 2012…

prose: maid’s day off

Maid’s Day Off

Mary lived at the end of the hall. The only chance I had to speak with was the night she shot her husband with a .357.

prose: temporary vice

Sara shook my hand with a firm grip and apologized for a cold hand.

“Well, it is 20 degrees out?”

“Is it? Really?” She seemed genuinely surprised or faked it well.

poem: the shallow graves of those left behind…for the 99%

the shallow graves of those left behind
police wander around
wait for instruction from a man in high tower,
a tower covered in ivy and privilege
and a spoon of silver still resting on a lapdog’s tongue -

poem: east of where i stand

my brain fills
with scattershot landscapes,
tumble weeds blow dead
across long flat rivers of black asphalt,
trees and shrubs bend from a ceaseless wind,
dust carves veins atop dry clay river bottoms –

poem: lost in a myth of my own creation

there’s a scar on her back
and I wonder
is that where the magic starts?

update -

if you are actually reading this and not downloading the adult images i have hidden around this blog, this is an update on the writing-side of jck hnry. there are no links to adult images herein, so if that is your destiny, please move on…for now. Ha!

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a recent review of yours truly appears here. it is quite positive and interesting to read, especially from my perspective. even with this now my fifth or sixth book/chap, i am amazed that people take the time to review. it is always a pleasure to discover insight other eyes hold…

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george anderson over at bold monkey did a rather lengthy and intriguing review of CRUNKED. there is an interview with the author at the end of the review where i sound completely pompous and a bit drunk. all that is here.

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CRUNKED can be purchased at either Small Press Distribution and AMAZON. Click on either to buy. As yet I do not have copies. Not enough cash for a pre-publication buy…soon, maybe.

prose: an argument

prose: an argument
by Jack Henry on Monday, October 3, 2011 at 9:54pm.

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Note: Totally random and without edit. A five minute right because my internet is so fucking slow.

poem: sublimation

poem: sublimation
i am a 1950s suburban housewife
standing at a door,
knowing but not wanting him to return after a day at an office,
or an afternoon with his whore;
alone in a kitchen,
masturbating to memories,
lost in a fog of anti-depressants and household chores,
Leave It to Beaver beatitudes
and paint-by-numbers Barbie play sets -

poem: angels of disrepair

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and still the whispers echo
long after the rope’s been cut,
bodies removed,
sinners and saints retired from the town square,
the center of the world,
the center of life,
the very core of it all -

poem: atop the bones of dead saints

we place stones one by one
atop the bones of saints
felled by the voices of disbelief
and disintegration -
and no more to dance
in fields laid flat by the footsteps
of hooligans and martyrs,
carrying their flames and fears
within the clench of trembling hands -

poem: fields afire

there is no silence at the center
of a garden filled with dead flowers
and falling leaves;
a garden surrounded by armor and brick
and the bones of soldiers gone so long from us now -

poem: driftwood

tv’s buzzing some old movie -
undercover angels chasing demon dope -
ceiling fan spins lazy -
winter’s begins a slow drift in -