i.

sudden and unexpected appearance

of stained glass and sculpture

just off of pike street,

sainthood pressed between redbrick.

 

ii.

posters on telephone poles

layered deep on streetlights

like growth rings on trees;

art history seattle 101.

 

everything else academic.

 iii.

blacktop writing on harvard, east olive,

"You Suck" in five foot tall lettering
her (white-fingered) final farewell

to redfaced ex-boyfriend

alone on the 3^rd story balcony.

 

iv.

umbrella abandoned on clear day

open, upside-down on apartment steps

begs for its story to be told.

 

(black with upturned roses)

 

v.

shops on capitol hill

struggle for balance,

feeling mythically iconic

and hopelessly temporary,

 

each one reflecting

a poet in their youth.

 

vi.

seattle

is all hills

and reasons to walk,

linger and wander,

the inspiration of calf muscles.

(her muses all a stretch

of legs and heated breaths)

 

vii.

secret areas revealed

between apartment buildings,

around the corners of retaining walls,

spaces of thoughtless architecture

occupied by dreamers and madmen

setting up park benches

beneath the shade of homes.

 

grottos and gardens fashioned

through the artistic drive

to fill blank canvas.

 

(so every last footfall
deserving of it's own frame

set in the gallery of remembrance.)

 

 

 

Jacob Johanson is terrible at writing bios.  Which is ironic, really, considering his large ego and love of words.  It bothers him.  His work has appeared in Words Dance, Kill Poet, Zygote in my Coffee, The Seed and a variety of other publications.  He is the literary editor of Off Beat Pulp, a rag that he thinks you ought to take a look at.