smoking poet

Welcome to the inaugural edition of tMx’s new feature: ‘Poetry/Emotion’. Our first poet on point is Nicolas Jackson of Utah, who has faithfully submitted the excellent work below.

We welcome all poets with open arms & should you desire to see yr words in the hallowed pages of tMx then simply e-mail: wastebin@trakMARX.com

Nicholas Jackson was born and raised in Salt Lake City, Utah. As a young adult, Nick was banned from the Mormon Temple on multiple occasions, although it is widely acknowledged in underground circles that he is the real Prophet of the mormon church. He currently resides in a one bedroom apartment (with a porch) in Olympia, Washington. Nick keeps a large monkey smoking a cigarette on his arm, and takes pleasure in Rimbaud, mathematics, Camel Lights and early morning hours. Note: this poetry is nothing, do with it what you will.

Dead Turtles Aren’t Crepuscular


This morning I was up to see
the dawn off, I sat
wishing against it, my diffidence gone,
setting all my might against the day’s
avarice, its will for ennui disguised
as promise. That rushing sphere is nothing
but a rote with time which
I think . . . I’m obligated to defend.


There’re dead turtles
held in windswept landscapes
in jars
in my bedroom. They don’t leave . . .
they recognize —
respect my fear of tearing them
near to home.


Domed tombs in my room, waiting
for light, swollen Kerr jars,
testaments of faith.

As a Child
in the bathtub
water’s not very blue like they say
more clear gray monotone porcelain and
space drained of quiet,
dangers in mind
drown with sinking boats,
discover real life
breathing words, phantom sailors
keeping my voice
to a whisper.

After work there’s a diner
where I usually go shedding
wrinkled tears into
cups filled with
wrinkled tears.

Sometimes the waitress
flirts but it bounces off skin
like flies. In the morning
it’s not quite
the same. In the morning
the sun is creeping
infantile. In the morning
is speakable.

As soon as I’m done I
head up stairs to my room where no
one bothers me at all.

When women flirt with you
it’s easy to be a man.
When you know words like crepuscular
it’s easy to be a poet.

six o’clock
and sick of sidewalks
schizophrenic’s junk play
sunshine taking my tears
taking my body
running stairs like candlesticks
closing doors like empty bottles
no one’s here
no bother at all
notes heavy
and intoxicated.

my plunger dyed
red last night monday
night then baptized
me with vascular motions the
liquid dabbed forehead
sweating ethereal like
we’ve always wanted
to be deified like Abel
bodies roaming with slightly wet
foreheads hands pointed like
prayer towards me and I’ll
wipe their brow and rub
my crucifix skies arterial in
motion but I’ll stop them I’ll
stop them dead in their
tracks dead wood
like coffin I’ll
stop them I’ll stop
them you’ll see
I’ll get my (mine)

Bright night running faces falsifying
inevitable feelings I’ve
missed slithering tourniquets and undead but
dying love. Cold ground leads
trash-like flowers empty window
sills sad existence under One
Rigor Hand.

great civilized horses
running wheels of
Romans turning OpiumCoca fields
into Wal-Marts overshadowing
those moments thirteen
hours long wandering roughly
mother rotting
as searching magnetic tape
implants of death scroll
following Bedouins in
cereal appliance greeting
card lingerie aisles prisoners
stitching seams labias
holding back then
gushing hogs
loneliest sty
I’ll ever see

There was the time
when I burnt a heart
into my forearm with
heated lighter burning I felt
no fear
no love
just a sort of pride
in having exposed one
of those things which
others hold
inside and dear.
These days all that
remains is a small
linear scar, I guess
my conviction wasn’t
strong enough, or
maybe I was wrong.

Nicolas Jackson – tMx 16 – 08/04

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