desperation
a single black crow
caws from his perch atop a mesquite tree
deep in the Mojave Desert.
it watches me pass as i wander by,
waiting on my collapse and
a skull upon which to feed.
gillian anderson
she sits across from me uninvited
late night at a Starbucks near Hollywood
hi, i’m…
yeah, i know
i say, voice cracking suddenly 15 or 18
or something less than 58
you dedicated something, to me
yeah, i did
she takes a bite of blueberry muffin
i slug back the remains of my coffee
congrats on the Emmy,
congrats on the book, can you sign my copy?
yeah, of course
i follow her up a long driveway,
in a town that’s not Bel Air or Beverly Hills
she unlocks the front door, kisses me in the foyer
holds out her hand at the foot of the stairs
i keep it in my bedroom,
she says, red hair cut short, blue eyes sparkling
next to the Emmy?
yes, of course
her main bedroom is massive
king bed, couch, fire place
sitting area, treadmill, walk in closet,
wanna shower first?
she says, unexpectedly
her clothes bread crumbs leading to her silhouette
before i sign my book?
yes, before that
i follow quickly,
just as my fever breaks
and i wake up
norm
i keep thinking of
this old man
this old poet
a man i barely knew
other than a few
notes traded
back & forth
this old man
down in the Village
he’s dead now
almost a year
maybe two
i can’t keep track
lots of folks die
i think about
his words
legacy
how everything
stopped
when he died
maybe that’s how
it’s works
everything stops
when you’re dead
but maybe
if one person
keeps thinking about
an old man
an old poet
more than just words
carry on
maybe that’s legacy
maybe that’s
enough
for norman savage
victim
the thick wet sound
of shotgun blast
rips from the apartment
next door
and i race
ten steps down
the hall
to investigate.
Cecilia stands in
the doorway,
her cigarette
smoking as much
as the end of the shotgun
in her hand.
she smiles at me
through broken teeth,
skin bruised; clothes torn
takes a long drag
and says,
maybe now somebody’ll
listen to me?
cops tramp up old wooden steps
guns drawn
scream in unison,
get down, get down
and Cecilia turns
her head and says,
then again,
maybe not…
jack henry is a queer writer based in the high desert of south-eastern california. in 2020 jack’s third collection, driving w/crazy, was released by Punk Hostage Press.