by Michael Dwayne Smith
Thus radiant,
therefore unlasting, this poem
that is Cactus Wren with its jar-jar-jar, nest
hatching messages
from a spirit world humans
have long forgotten. Sublimity, as if it were
sky. Minimalism,
as if it were happiness. Your
tumor, your PTSD, your children vaping
urns full of
disenchantment, the slurry speech
of your ancient gods, jubilant all. The past is
young and delirious.
The future is a corpse in
the shape of an air-conditioned room, Needles,
California, 119
in the shade, a cemetery full
of books, poets cold in your mouth, arroyo
stones hot stars fallen
from heaven— a C-note says
yes-yes-yes, digital copies of love will suffice.
Michael Dwayne Smith is the author of five books, including a forthcoming poetry collection, "Shaking Music from the Angry Air" (Sheila-Na-Gig Editions, summer 2025); his work haunts many literary houses, including Heavy Feather Review, Ethel, Third Wednesday, New World Writing Quarterly, decomP, Heron Tree, Gargoyle, Monkeybicycle, and Star 82 Review. He's a recipient of the Hinderaker Poetry Prize, the Polonsky Prize for fiction, and several Pushcart Prize/Best of the Net nominations. He lives near a Mojave Desert ghost town with his family, rescued horses, and Calamity the California calico cat.
January House Literary Journal 
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