the poetry of Jim DeWitt

It Beats Fresh Germs

if ever your month-old
stone cold soup d'jour is
going sour, simply
drag a ripe pinecone across it
at three knots...
then while assessing
the remnants, stretch supine
on the dining room carpet
and juggle dreams...
of those three
hefty wishes why
you shouldn't have

Utterly Hushed

this is the story of
plenty of plums whose bruises
needed mending, flattened out
for the count
in a little-enough bowl...
for my mouth ached to yell "stop"
but the brutal blows
went on landing
like mustang's toenails
and now their poor pit-colors
cannot bleed off
though they bend without breaking
beyond sunset,
the solitary witness

These pages are created and maintained by David Jacobs and S. Adam Rice . Please mail them if you have any comments, suggestions, or whatever.