Wednesday Night Visions

by jdavidcharles

Having been doing longer, extended, narrative poems I thought I should take a step back and deal with some smaller and more intimate forms (less Whitman, more Basho). Thus this set of poems dealing with midweek melancholia–boredom, isolation, and the insularity of self and body that result. No major metaphysical claims here, just pure, poetic presenting (pure meta-physic?… meh).


Wednesday Night Visions




just awake

on my purple loveseat:

on top of two books, one half-

inside the other




so little to say

or do or say this

evening, chatting

with old friends online,

horny as hell




heading back from the car

midweek, at night,

stepping on those worms

dried white from

morning sun




naked at the mirror

and feeling my breast—

what did you mean, Whitman?

what mean “electric”?




back from filling up

on gas, 2 buck cava, almond

milk, sugar-free pie:

odd smells in the refrigerator

and a sound

(from the back?)