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Jack Anders

The one who grew broccoli
in a garden in back of his house
that he shared with 5 other people.
He slept in this corner over here –
see where the wood floor is lighter
shaded where his mattress used to be.
His favorite bird was the mockingbird.
Red was his favorite color. Often
passing a blind man on the street or
a crackhead with those unmistakable
dingy white eyes        he could do nothing
and he did nothing:        it was the fact
that what he could do
and what he did
were always the same                                        Another



one? OK Philetta from
Luxembourg. She had general
maintenance/laundry/room cleaning duties
at the Excelsior Hotel off
Grand Ave. A very narrow alley
in back of the hotel
when she went to haul out
the big tub of used-up kitchen lard
to dump it down the gutter, once in a while
she made a point of walking three steps to the left
to get a glimpse down that long and narrow alley
not at a mountain
just                flits of pigeons                sky


a third? Sure why not one
more, this kind of theme
likes trinities. A young man Pablo
who gave a kidney as donor for his brother.
But the brother loved to
drink and that strained his system,
too much, at last and so Pablo
came to his hospital bed
where his brother George was sleeping.

George’s face looked flaccid and hollow,
yellowish deposits in the skin under the eyes,
his teeth, his nose. His nose like a wax doll of a nose.


Swishing sound. Pablo looks up
and sees the filmy white hospital window drapes
moving, rippling a little
cos the AC came on.


It occurs to Pablo that the shapes of the rising
streams of air
shimmying up the drapes
like sidewinder snakes (he’d seen
their tracks – disconnected S’s
up the side of a dune
like a wind with its bones exposed – )


it occurred to him that the plumy
rising shapes and motions of the drapes
(like legions of zephyrs
playing touch football) Occurred to him



        Snort. His brother wakes up,
defocuses his gaze from that distant other
texture he’d been looking into,
sharpens, glances, breathes
“Don’t even say it” Pablo says (his brother
        already crying, wanting to say, the
        kidney, other stuff
        wasted, borrowed
rent and that girl Felicia
with a choice between the two . . . .                         Occurred



        They look like the gates of heaven

        the gates look like sea surface to someone drowning,
                white and unearthy-surfaced
the gates of light

        your hair spreads, struggle ended
                your brow softens                        release

                        Tiny white bubbles        silver coin soul

into all this, all this, oh all this air

There’s a little plant I pass
Each day as I walk
From the parking garage
To where I work. It’s wedged far down
A hollow alley
Narrow – on a bright sunny day
It must get a slit of sun
For like ten minutes.
Oval, canoe-shaped leaves – a baby magnolia?

I want to say: And that moment of light
Slats all the surrounding
Shadows full of restful
Softness.

On the back page of the arts and entertainment rag,
ads for 6-handed sensuous massage,
ad that says "employment wanted ! will do
anything !" . . . ads that say "work from home . . ."
"want to be a model?" . . . . where money
preys upon needs preys upon
hope, we know we're home . . . . and the
people are sweet and
do not want our pity.
I watched a woman put on her favorite
butterfly barrettes, leaning in to examine herself
in the mirror
above a generic subdivision sink fixture
in a house that had no substance of its own,
but was compiled of ceaselessly sold and repeated
components . . . the doorknobs,
the kitchen tile floor. The scotchguard
carpet. The Prell
shampoo. The very smell
of her hair.

I found myself stuck in traffic in North Raleigh
among dozens of squarish sun-beaded tops of cars
each patient meaningless and insanely free.
In my rearview I saw a gray man's slackjawed face
devoted to eating, getting and needs. The giving
is all for the sake of the
getting. This is
Amerika.

These sights, some of them, have never been
previously recorded.

As I sit here writing this,
the tree leafs outside my window
shimmy and shake.
The summery sun
stripes them whitely.

Women go door to door bearing makeup wares to sell.
Bright-faced caffeinated men go down a list of cold calls.
An old woman smells the warm smell of macaroni
as the door to K&W Cafeteria opens.
An old man secretively dials a 1-900 number
and reclines in his Lay Z Boy
as the soft swooming youthful woman's voice
comes down and lathers him as sunlight does
the leafs. And it is not

an imitation:
this is real beauty in her voice,
real love, however misdirected.

In Amerika, the love is broken and placed
inside relics, trash cans, brains, tupperware utensils,
plastic bags, saunas, sausage dogs, plastic triangle
flags flapping along the grassy verge of the car
dealership, big block yellow and orange
lettering of the Hardees 99 cent special,
the taint and relish and hopefulness in the voice
which despite everything, in sheer stupidity, says
"Employment needed, will do anything !" --

I feel intensely sad and I am glad to
end this poem and go to see the doctor taking
my empty bottle of Paxil with me.

“Anders” is internet pen name for fellow who works out of
Raleigh NC, been writing poems for a while, works day job in office, age 38, thinks internet makes poetry a lot more cool than it used to be because it allows an alternative to going thru MFA writing workshops etc. However much internet poetry is completely naïve when it comes to
formal matters and one gets the sense that most internet poets write more than they read and that’s bad karma, you should read as much as you write.  I stick to the Sandbox board because it is unmoderated – no control censor editor at the top – and the variety of writers there is
really wide. . . ..Come check it out.

Kudos