Jack Kimball – Three Poems

Jack Kimball

Three Poems

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I’ll lighten what’s complex (to me) by replacing ideas with glass and silence, a kind of stripping down to the ashen stems of unspeaking. But, first, I’m a busybody, not a mime pedaling on an obscure brand of bike. Hail, love, I’m in hell with you. Let’s text each other and try to stay positive in this art zone, swallowing hard. I’m definitely into art. The problem with engineered simplicity, both as affectation and requirement, is you have to give aclinic lines to what annoy others, and what some think passive-aggressive. Internal “gears” relegate the nauseous affects to personal advantage (ugh), which I waive anyway, as if / as though privileged opposition were huge treasure for anyone else. This is my own Satangate segment. I know I see this. Why drive to my new place where they cook something, spend time at what could be your last lunch, pour coke over the glass table, because you won’t live to feel the buzz, watching the clock in whiteface?


Soda gong the image. Wouldn’t it be great? If you could poke a small opening in my body … front to back, crisp and round like a three-hole punch. Tag and tie it. Piercing for good. It can’t be a part you move a lot, to start. No hands or feet. Not the eyes. Perhaps a hollowing-out aimed at the gluteus medius skirting the sacrum and pelvic girdle that pops from the adductor longus, topside, avoiding the long bone altogether. Might hurt down there. To play it safe, the shoulder can go first. Smack between the infra- and supra-spinatus near the top in back, down and out the latissimus dorsi. The right one, not the left (that’s over the heart). Face it, if the hole slants down back to front, you’ll have to look up to see through. You know, for real.


A lot of Dutch people go Dutch. I hate it.

I go clubbing, shopping, and I like standing outside various embassies. I’ve tried my hand at cinematography, finally. What are the chances of two films about Truman Capote? A band of friends ejaculated watching one, and after, we feasted on a plate of roasted grouts (a group of four), with a puddle of butter up the middle, and manly farmer’s cheese. Each swell of the communal tide melted me down. We were a community, just enjoying the way life is, adrift.

Then I moved to the Delft coast, Rijswijkse Waterweg, the dunes of Irontown, because my writing is at the salt shore’s edge, just across from Spread Eagle where I’ve bagged the ultimate, the dainty, newly built priest’s house, along with the priest.

I’m walking now in thriller sunshine.

I’ll have to let you know how that is.

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