Tag Archives: Mark Jackley


by Mark Jackley

If I were the Addams Family tree we paid a guy
named Steve to trim and fell,
I would brightly burn

in Emily’s and Matt’s new old Sixties boondocks home
with its two wood stoves,
like confetti I would burst

all over Steve’s red face and his stubby, hungry saw
to celebrate myself,
I would calmly face

the twenty-something cretins from the all-night party house
down the street who took the biggest
pieces from my base

and gathered in their driveway, circling with beers
and axes, wonder-struck
by my power and my girth.

I’d shine out from my stump like the clean face of the moon
and gaze up at the sun,
remembering our love-

making without cease, even in the naked winters,
screaming from my grasping
Thomas Hart Benton

limbs and when you leaned into the February gales,
like a lost bird,
you would hear me sing.



by Mark Jackley
Hot tub on a budget.
Lazy man’s water slide.
Maytag for the soul,
irrigation system for
calm, green thoughts
in the Mojave of middle age.
Low-rent Blue Lagoon.
Summer storm for one.
Jacuzzi for the joblessrecovery, child-support
paying set. Closet monsoon,
rapids for the mild,
a poor man’s Iguazu,
skinny-dipping for the shy.
World’s lowest soapbox,
where monologues and dreams
disappear like bubbles
and gray hairs down the drain.