Sometimes I wish I were still out
on the back porch, drinking jet fuel
with the boys, getting louder and louder
as the empty cans drop out of our paws
like booster rockets falling back to Earth
and we soar up into the summer stars.
Summer. The big sky river rushes overhead,
bearing asteroids and mist, blind fish
and old space suits with skeletons inside.
On Earth, men celebrate their hairiness,
and it is good, a way of letting life
out of the box, uncapping the bottle
to let the effervescence gush
through the narrow, usually constricted neck.
And now the crickets plug in their appliances
in unison, and then the fireflies flash
dots and dashes in the grass, like punctuation
for the labyrinthine, untrue tales of sex
someone is telling in the dark, though
no one really hears. We gaze into the night
as if remembering the bright unbroken planet
we once came from,
to which we will never
be permitted to return.
We are amazed how hurt we are.
We would give anything for what we have.
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Comments about this poem (Jet by Tony Hoagland )
- Eternal Spirits, RoseAnn V. Shawiak
- Waiting On God, Tom Zart
- Eunuch, arshad arshad
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- Letting Go, Phil Soar
- bury this six feet under your eyelids, Mandolyn ...
- Alighting From Despair, RoseAnn V. Shawiak
- Life Is Awakened, RoseAnn V. Shawiak
- Island Grassland, George Egba
- BEWILDERED, Joseph Ndawula
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(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
- Heather Burns
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(27 October 1914 – 9 November 1953)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
Udiah (witness to Yah)