How come you want to see Chris Jackson's Po Fu?

This spanking new version of my site shows a different sticky world of my poems. I'm calling it "An Attraction to Novelty," which means something. If you want to read some poems from manuscripts, click a title on the left below below. Or just read the Poem of the Little Bit. Or see the best ice cream i just had.

This area is something like a "Poem of the Day" feature, but I'm too tired to do much. So every once in a while, I'll put something new I'm working on where. It's always someone I'm working on, an early draft. So feel plucky and tell me it sucks. Tell me everything.

And Either Lying

My super Judas doesn't
love these gasps in our
communications. This
is the effect you
get, slapping so much
vinegar around the cess-
pool of your finger,
which landed nail-down
through a wren's brain,
thrown from the top
of the tempter's mountain
as it was. The ballroom
you think your hand
becomes becomes
the slowest airship, slowing
because it is airless.
I blow your thought
and my thought off
the crooked plane we
think we're on. Stump
in my imaginary eye,
less watching the knock
on your door than
you, I wonder who
might show up. This
cellophane minute,
when the gate falls
on your good leg
and the bears of
the garden urinate on
everybody and the world
just feels this way,
you might want to
rub your memories of
growing on me. Unless,
like some dying men,
you'd rather not talk.

This last updated May 31, 2002. The Celtics had a damn fine season.