Whitney Jones Olson
Whitney Jones Olson Poems
i am taken aback;
i question your strength,
your revelations;
your integrity.
...
Maple Marble your fine overtones,
like Marshall Fields in Chicago
where you wrote an essay of political analogy,
and became The Pro,
...
She hears the Carmina Burana behind her eyes,
the oratorio asks to be pulled from her / into text /
She breaks the law two hours after waking,
sits in linen through the afternoon / pontificates /
...
The final lecture, it has concluded, with a
scathing evaluation of its fearful leader,
and I have glided easily to the fountain of Venus
who has drawn herself on all my time here,
...
Saw you on a Sunday -
reading your Bible,
bought you some candy -
got cuffed to your chair.
...
'Tis my spleen 't makes me write,
A mummified epileptic screaming
somewhere in Mexico
Licking eyeballs and 700 piercings
...
Linger, honey
tiptoe stand
massage unrequiting trees
i'll rub oil in your arches
...
Standing on the ink ribbon of a lunar eclipse - light dribbling under with the steady stream of carbon sap - waiting to be a darkling singularity, gently thrashing for extinguished guidance - politely disintegrating - clothing my melting youth in black, to disguise for al sun-set company the disapparition of their light - this girl, a shadow gypsy
again
between nothing blood infinite choices
...
Wanna play,
say you'll stay,
for my Christmas holiday? Wanna plant simplistic rhymes,
commit some subversive interior decorating? All this,
...
If it is, then, true
that we have only a number
of heartbeats,
then i lose a few
...
walking, along
and wondering, who
that young man is, there
in the shadows, and
...
Words - are a
tumbledown romance
a fantastic interlocking, and
an aesthetic.
...
A mew, an assertion, a confusion on verse.
A submission; audition; insatiable thirst.
A tremble, a shiver, a sliver of fear;
...
My everyday rush - is not only the air in the leaves, not only
the steady progression of cylindrical confessionals, the
fibers fluxes and cascade of tumbling icons - for which eye
have taken recently a hostile merger, (an ocular coup, of sorts) , No...
...
It is
no more my
my discernable day.
Than is the quilted erosion through madcap teacups' hedonistic
...
Standing outside in the American evening
I am at once cold, naked, exposed;
tired of making excuses for myself, behavior, and
compatriots to these Academic walls,
...
And yet, a refuge form the cold shoulders
I find you. America!
Land of mad rambling saints, and
drizzling caramel abounding fruits plentiful;
...
Your, soulless sycophants, carelessly toss aside my indifference.
Your, precious pedagogues, misunderstand.
Your, noncompliant nihilists, dissemble as I peer.
Your, meritorious malcontents, shield me in their desolation.
...
Oh, God-sick America, bless your heart,
You sincere sweet ragged old mistress,
Of paradoxes, duplicity, soaring birth rates,
And the need to legally tranquilize,
...
Shelter me free in my aberrations, America.
Let me consume in the fleshes of your brilliant tortured boys;
Let me revel in the pirouettes of your naïve moonlit girls;
Indulge me these, America.
...
Whitney Jones Olson Biography
23, married, four step-children who live with their mother, moving to NYC in August, just finished Grad school, not an academic no gods no, anarchist (local government believer) , agnostic, respectful of all the peaceful, deeply saddened by the others. Writing since fifth grade, work as an editor, reading the classics as a way to get through the summer. i would make this artful, but it just doesn't matter right now.)
The Best Poem Of Whitney Jones Olson
Taken Aback
i am taken aback;
i question your strength,
your revelations;
your integrity.
i put myself;
in a position you do not accord me,
and as always,
watch with a guarded
heart that is a reflection.
i wrote about you once.
About the completion of your character, and the colour of your eccentricity.
i wrote about you on a sweet, sad Spring day while taking my solace on the bittersweet ocean of deadened desire.
Although my actual perspective is long since destroyed,
i recall comparing you to a nearly nymphette cocktail waitress, and finding you wanting.
And when the tides turned beneath the heavy technicolor sunset, i found myself without you.
Removed from you, i am always left wanting - muscles aching to grasp your ephemeral form, dancing through the destruction that i alone create.
Destruction - without creation - is an incomplete cycle, the enormity of which i could not internalize - you create from me another, higher being.
i remember adoring you in your grace and wit - your strengths so mirroring mine, while still the chords of masculinity ripple down your back - i wrote, i know, that these things made you a central character in my relative reality.
And, later, i wrote this - that i remember writing of you. And even then i was falling in rivulets down the lines of your skin, the spiral stairs of your frame; landing, randomly, even then.
Later still, i am again in the presence of my being's mystic painter. No longer an empty canvas no longer falling although fallen, certainly. With my own grace to mirror yours, and strength to grasp you. When the tides turn beneath tomorrow's eclipse, the cyclicality of creation may overwhelm me, as it tends to do. A smile a tide will rise by your gravity, as i find myself no longer wanting - in myself, in you.
i wrote about you once.
Writing of you is never complete.
i wrote about you once.
About the completion of your character, and the colour of your eccentricity.
i wrote about you on a sweet, sad October day while taking my solace on the bittersweet ocean of deadened desire.
i wrote about you once.
The idea of you burns in the fall leaves; the scent of the smoke is pure.
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