facing opposition, comfortable death, anxiety and the news by Jess Kangas

the red and white stitching on my worn in broken wool is like a globe, but when i look at it i also see the shape of my sapphire ring, and i love the way its clarity forms in light, but to go from coat of lamb to stolen jewelry, i pass by red lines on ghost skin that are harsh like railroad tracks, but some seem crazed, not formed, like black lines in a wassily composition, or comets passing through, and they symbolize everything, maybe in ten years each line will be worth ten dollars, but the bills are up and i’m coming down, if only there was money left, but what’s of money when you worry of planets aligned in black vapor, gravity pulling our bodies apart, the fatter ones will take longer to have each piece pulled into nothing, but only by flashes of time, and then of course there are the books on my slanted shelf gathered in lime feather boa that need to be packed so i can recover in buffalo or watch you from above.

 

 

Jess Kangas is a strawberry siren poet located in Buffalo, NY. Her poetry is rich in sound, structure and secrets.

 

 

Wheatfield under Thunderclouds, 1890, Vincent van Gogh.

defeat of purpose by Jess Kangas

listen close,
because we’re
three minutes
away from the
messiah coming
and my name
is on her boot
and you’re going to
want to know why.

it all started
harmlessly,
and then fire rippled
my teenage face
like an electric surge
of candy
proportions.

if this doesn’t make sense,
it’s not going to,
and I apologize for
twisting words into foul play
and smoking up a storm on
your mother’s piano last week.

but ten days ago,
i came across a box,
blue, leather, unusual
with diamonds on the corners.
it puzzled me and inside
were all your thoughts-
every one of them.

i know where you went that Monday-
and why you don’t like me
wearing buttoned shirts,
and how you laughed at your father’s
death not knowing what it meant.

listen, I’ve only got
about thirty-two seconds left
and I know you’re going to try
to lather me in calm bubbles
and sweep me up, so I’ll
hold still the night,
but these actions
are too devoted.

no, you and i
will part and perhaps
you’ll live in high peaks
of pearl colored satisfaction
while
i delve into the horrors
of my charred body
cracking over street corners,
mixing with the tar like
how you and i used to
dance.

 

 

Jess Kangas is a strawberry siren poet located in Buffalo, NY. Her poetry is rich in sound, structure and secrets.

 

Photograph by Nessa Land.

breeding by Jess Kangas

sobriety breeds insomnia
breeds my sunday
night-at my home, it’s mother’s
day-I bought the succulent near the horse farm, the card
in walgreens, I posted on facebook with 3
hearts-our secret.
remains. it comes from the mother-
yours was a lion actress, she took men in
her mouth on acid while
you ate tv dinners nearby, I remember
her in the mall-every step a broken step- her mother
GG. seventy years old bail bondsman in Florida-
the prisoners loved her- she had dinners
with everyone, you mentioned the drugs, guns, the transgender
woman, that guy Nicky had a knife.
and your father’s mother- they called her red,
she lied about her birthday, her clothes neatly
pressed- no one ever spoke
of her son that passed-
they lived
on the upper
west side- fine china, two maids-
one nanny. when the stocks
crashed- he blanked himself-
we never speak of what
lies dormant
in my womb.

 

 

Jess Kangas is a strawberry siren poet located in Buffalo, NY. Her poetry is rich in sound, structure and secrets.

 

 

Photograph by Steve Snodgrass.