Thomas Jackson

---

Midnight kid


undressed for the window, music spinning, parts
swinging in the air for parking lot silhouettes
backlit back sweat and after shower thick mist
a little carnal dip into cherubic nudity, look at me
always told I’m an old soul. I can carry the weight
of being a confidant. it’s been said I was born eighty,
crotchety, back pained. I get my attention from nurses
bouncing back and forth slung like a slug from ER waiting
rooms to beds throwing anything white and super bitter
steroids, muscle relaxers, antihistamines at the wall to end
weeks long migraines, finally admitted for five days of DHE
on a heart monitor blowing IV after IV infiltrated until my
right arm burns bright red, tendons rigid, hard to bend.
back to urgent care in a few weeks, toradol jabbed in my ass
cheeks, prednisone step down with an audible gulp i’m gully
hopping resting in fierce doldrums going straight from the
cold white linen dressed bed to work and back again for
more and more pain meds, waiting from 7pm to 12am
again and again in rooms packed with coughing babies
feeling guilt when the nurse finally calls me back in front
of a man with a shard of glass wedged firm in his nose
arms pinned like dead butterfly wings between choices
courtesy calls out to me to yield but the pain demands
an audience so I meet it, red cloak, fluorescent forest
magnesium infusion, tasting Imitrex as it’s pushed
sunglasses on in the dark bed bay; groaning all around
and oh, it’s coming down over me, the violet velvet haze
from the ceiling, the angel of death’s marked me to win
the trauma olympics, i’m drained yet unable to rest.

---

Thomas, shut up


bite the controvers
averse, avert utter
another lie about
your past cover
over how parties
never involved
you

bite the contro
criticize stranger
harshly until a
friend appeals
to your guilt
Thomas, shut
up, Thomas

chew the con
pull the pink
off your inner
cheek to reveal
the pink under
tell another
tall tall tale

masticate the c
cuck the cusp
cut the corner
crack skull
against a
cabinet
corner
playing
ghosts
with a
blanket
over your
head oh the
weepy weep
bite the bite it y

---

liquor in a time of salt, lime, and longing


a few shots deep one hour in, my hands against
the cigarette stained asbestos crackle pop ceiling
off comes a beige chunk I drive like a shard under
your right rib whisper to send it toward your

heart begins its fatal swim as a water pipe bursts
clothes are coming off as the current carries you
my shadow with your coal hands still grabbing
ass as if you own it I look up and take a drink

soil accepts your corpse as a macabre present I'm
shedding all sad pretense dipping from the flooded
pregame to go pound well drinks my oral fixation
sets in chewing inner cheek while grinding with

any gender willing butt pointed out hitting straight
men who shove me to the middle offended from a
light tap the rejection only worsens the hunger to
let my guard down fully without mind tainting

---

---

Banner Art:
from Position Interplay:Midnight, Samia Halaby, 1981