One Day There Will Be Nothing To Show That We Were Ever Here

By Scott Alexander Jones


This collection of poems revolves around impermanence, exploring the transitory nature of existence thru a lens widening from our individual lives to entire civilizations to the world itself. It is grounded in the incessant awareness that even if human apes manage to avert nuclear or otherwise apocalypse in the coming centuries, the sun will one day stop converting hydrogen into helium and the earth will grow cold.

Published September 2009

ISBN 978-0-965-6234-5-2
6inx4.25in / 65pp / $10

 

praise for One Day…

‘Capable of stylish recursions and switchbacks, the restless speaker of these poems finds an auspicious trail head just about anywhere at the inconspicuous margins of the present American West. from the WTO protests in Seattle, a vegan co-op in Los Angeles, a western Montana skate park, or his native red Texas clay, Jones might launch one of his self-refining, surefooted excursions, and like the highest climb they are revelatory as outlook broadens. service berry and solidarity at the top. “this trail goes far above that rock i thought was the peak.’”

Brian Blanchfield, author of Not Even Then

Excerpt

Bonnie & Clyde Settle
Down in the Suburbs

You put the cute in execute
I put the ex in exclamation point!

We put the pair in paranoia
I put the annoy in paranoia

You put the cunt in ctrl-alt-delete
I put the cock in ridiculous

& the occasional orifice
We put the warship in worship

I put the slightly-attracted-to-certain-skinny-mantypes
in shoegazer, sungazer, stargazer, seagazer

You put the keys beneath the TV stand
so I’ll be late for work

When my dead confederate grandfather
says Jew’s-harp I hear juice-harp

I put neither in Juniper—
that pinecone smell of gin on my breath

come morning, like green
Listerine, not whisky

I put the Adam in atom bomb
which you put in the bomp-a-bomp-a-bomp

I put our Dodge Ram in the ram-a-lam-a-ding-dong
You put the Eve in EVOL

which is LOVE in pink lipstick cursive
on the bathroom wall behind the mirror

We put the fence in offensive
& down the center of our queen size—

It was off-white & picket
I whitewashed my side to spite you

To Mine & Molly’s Livers

May we call you lover
for all the loverly
though far from lovely

things we’ve put you thru.
Waking vampiric into a late afternoon

we could fly to Shanghai or Taiwan
& not punish these truant bodies with jetlag.
From Missoula we wake in unison

with Beijing factory workers
who rise to a feeble sun

safe to stare at thru smokestack plumes—
Who dream a frantic, delicate choreography
that is both memory & premonition.

And somewhere within bruised ribcages
like fingers unable to clench into a cradling fist

your soundless clockwork softens a little.
Like the severed tails of strange reptiles
it’s no secret you generate anew

the lost cells & dignity we often take from you
while the heart steadfastly refuses to appease.

But it’s not that we drink
the first definition of: spirits
to embody our frail machinery with

the third definition of: spirits—
To locate wolves, whales, centaurs

in one-line drawings between dots of starlight
tunneling lightyears
to light our path in the woods

long after gravity ceases to keep things together.
Lightning’s not quite so longwinded.

And it’s not that we drink moonshine
to tempt electricity on rainy nights.
We wake as if lost seven days in some desert

so we may replenish all that we set out to lose.
And the wayward mind that fears heights

for the impulse to overcome gravity
concedes to clean the kitchen sink in silence.
It’s not that we enjoy suffocating

naked bodies with blue acrylic—
Or crashing into corduroy self-portraits

& unsheathing glass from our shoulders for weeks—
Or wallpapering the floor with an Oxford dictionary—
Or fire-extinguishing fireless bedrooms—

Or triangulating vacant bottles
of Evan Williams like hollow bowling pins—

It’s just we desperately need you
captive & cowering in the dusty corner
of a room rarely reached by daylight.

And thru days when alarm clocks blind us,
when crickets resound like sinister belfries

we will keep trying to discover
somewhere in these
untrustworthy bodies

something worth healing.