Stephen Jackson Poems

Out there, beyond the abyss of night
Beyond the lightlessness that lies behind my own
Eye – worse, my inner eye –
A dog is howling.
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he span of his gaze was so great
He could not see the generations come and go before him:
Flickering, quicker than motes on a sunbeam.
Growing, rotting, burning at a supersonic pace;
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It’s night, when one needs love like blood,
And a city is an iceberg of lights,
The air throbs, roars like a distant bear.
The finger of one’s mind, in indolence,
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As I contemplate the waste that is a living mind
The moon, thin as a sabre, darkens in the sky.
More slender than my fingernail
Or so I want to think –
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To carry the child into adult life
Is good? I say it is not,
To carry the child into adult life
Is to be handicapped.
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Beneath the feverish chintz of
Someone else’s living room
I contemplate my own mortality,
And the thought of it wearies me.
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My mother, as usual, judged it best.
The day before her funeral, in a gibberish of legs,
A fly refused to die on her bathroom sill.
Out of its time, come February, but still
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Love should be like a hatchling butterfly:
Tearing free from worn-out skin,
Bursting with new blood its once-crushed wings, and
Ready to surpass the sky.
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You treat world history as a mathematician does mathematics, in which nothing but laws and formulae exist, no reality, no good and evil, no time, no yesterday, no tomorrow, nothing but an eternal shallow, mathematical present.

Otto Hess, on current economic theory
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