By Mark Jackley

The deejay interrupted 
Tears of a Clown to say
Janis was dead, my sweet Lord,
it’s too late baby, though
I’m going out of order, 
Tapestry came later,
after Janis swooned for Bobby, 
windshield wipers slapping time.
Freedom’s just another word 
for nothing left to use,
ask the poet scarred 
by acne and Port Arthur,
found at the Hollywood Motor Hotel 
blue-lipped, clutching a cig. 
She really did try to make it, 
my Lord, I want to see you,
I really want to be with you, 
oh god, please fucking listen—
if there’s a smile on my face, 
it’s only trying to fool the public.

Mark Jackley’s poems have appeared in Fifth Wednesday, Sugar House Review, The Cape Rock, Talking River, Cagibi, and other journals. His book Many Suns Will Rise is forthcoming from The Main Street Rag Press. He lives in Purcellville, Virginia.

By Mark Jackley

What this queue stretching for blocks needs is Carlton Fisk
to hop in place, chop his arms, put some English on our fate,
rerrange a few molecules, skew the spin of the earth— 
imagine, no more hunger, if only for today, 
even if tomorrow our luck pops out, the end. 
Oh captain, give us the sign to get up off our asses, 
to stand and cheer for the whole fucking team, train the heat of our love
to realign the stars as our hopes go sailing, higher,
spinning down the line, over Boylston Street.

Mark Jackley’s poems have appeared in Fifth Wednesday, Sugar House Review, The Cape Rock, Talking River, Cagibi, and other journals. His book Many Suns Will Rise is forthcoming from The Main Street Rag Press. He lives in Purcellville, Virginia.