Four Unreliable Maps to the Unmarked Grave of My Zen
art & prose poetry by Craytus Jones
I
Jazz music flows like ghosts in the mist. Blurry stars caress glassy eyes. Adrift in a sea of souls, my dance is more an emotion than an action. We're drunken flowers blowing in the Bourbon breeze. Night hums blue in our veins.
II
She believes in fairy tales. That's why she cries so much. I realize that work has called twice. Destroy another fantasy to keep the bills on a leash. Prince Charming is buried in our backyard next to Romeo. Dead bodies keep the lights on.
III
Damn stars. Her eyes are infested with twinkles. How the hell am I supposed to look into those heavenly pools of light, and keep my cool? Damn moon. Her skin is lousy with magical glow. How am I supposed to pretend I'm not in awe of her beauty?
Damn heart.
IV
She died with her face in a book. She was picturing an angel with a burning sword slicing through the tyranny of men. Her empty eyes focused on the word "freedom." Her last breath was poetry. Nobody would pay attention to such details, but, to her, they mattered.
Jazz music flows like ghosts in the mist. Blurry stars caress glassy eyes. Adrift in a sea of souls, my dance is more an emotion than an action. We're drunken flowers blowing in the Bourbon breeze. Night hums blue in our veins.
II
She believes in fairy tales. That's why she cries so much. I realize that work has called twice. Destroy another fantasy to keep the bills on a leash. Prince Charming is buried in our backyard next to Romeo. Dead bodies keep the lights on.
III
Damn stars. Her eyes are infested with twinkles. How the hell am I supposed to look into those heavenly pools of light, and keep my cool? Damn moon. Her skin is lousy with magical glow. How am I supposed to pretend I'm not in awe of her beauty?
Damn heart.
IV
She died with her face in a book. She was picturing an angel with a burning sword slicing through the tyranny of men. Her empty eyes focused on the word "freedom." Her last breath was poetry. Nobody would pay attention to such details, but, to her, they mattered.
About the writer
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Craytus Jones is a very strange person. He lives in the woods of SE Texas with his beautiful wife and spoiled dogs. He makes things out of whatever he can find: trash, scraps, sticks, words, pictures, noises. He likes paint splattered t-shirts and old trucker hats. He loves everybody. He is extremely flawed.
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