Jay Griswold


Chaos is my country, land of disjointed things,
A self-portrait with electrical discharge,
And the body achieving locomotion again
For the man who says: yes, I wrote poetry once,
But I couldn’t connect things, I couldn’t
And the huge angry eyes of the night
Shine on wheat fields that quiver with wind
In Saskatchewan, on runways where third-class mail
Crammed into duffelbags waits
For the last flight out or the Second Coming,
A body that dies of insomnia on the coast
Where a man walking a beach
Bends down to inspect a washed up shell
That reminds him of something vaguely human,
And the bright molecules of the neo-cortex
Light up a city that sleeps on its arms,
Or only a little cafe, where that madman, Tzara,
Is carving a dictionary into free speech…