Blythe, California and Alone in a House (with introduction by Lauren Cummings)

Dear Readers,

This February TWF reached its second year of publication. To celebrate we featured new work by our first four contributors. These four authors were instrumental in helping TWF become what it is today. We would be amiss however to forget our fifth contributor, a poet who not only contributed his work but whose advice, stemming from his experience running Heroin Love Songs, was invaluable to our editors when creating TWF. He also happens to be this month’s Guest Editor, Jack Henry. It is no surprise Jack’s theme asked poets to break all the rules, to write from their darkest places, and be as honest and in-your-face as possible because this is exactly what Jack’s own work exemplifies. We would like to congratulate the four poets selected by Mr. Henry for his month and thank Jack for his tireless effort. The Editors at TWF feel that with each Guest Editor Month it is important to find work that introduces exactly what our Guest Editor’s were looking for in their theme. Who better to introduce Jack Henry’s theme than the man himself?

Happy Reading,

Lauren Cummings
Co-Editor

blythe, california

she enters without knocking
says hello in a sad voice
takes off her pants
and leads me away -

we pretend not to notice
all infinite details
she pales in reflection
upon afternoon light -

i tell her old stories
she wants to be sober
i suffer from delusions
in the usual way -

no more for September
i am way beyond December
she sighs while descending
we consummate pain -

planes fly so slowly
when headed toward Cleveland
i whisper a response
to a sudden request -

castration potential
her promise unwilling
i leap through a flame
i lit with a match -

tomorrow is no where
we wait for surrender
i bless poor children
with stones from a pond -

madness is calling
i pretend to be pretty
there’s no hope in forgiveness
i forfeit my plea -

© 2011 Jack Henry

alone in a house
under skies gray

surrounded by an empty desert
and a dead sea

there are no voices
here
no sounds that rise from a schoolyard covered in dead grass
there are no eyes

no witnesses arranged in a fashionable stance to bear truth upon those of us that remain
there are no screams

no cries of ecstasy or pain or confusion from tides unbearable on shores discontent

in the solace of night
a meth kitchen explodes

unattended
no crowds gather to watch
and dance

in days like these
the ones we awake to without fresh skin
our feet

touch cold stone
hands reach out for glass pipe and torch

and little else

© 2011 Jack Henry