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.