photo by richard lee miller
John LaMar Elison has lived a life reading between the lines, finding the good seat on bad bus trips, and hunting amongst the stacks. He writes and fights and bathes by candlelight. His poetry may be reminiscent of letters from prison, but John has never served time.
Dim-bulbed and happy faced
with an overclocked pace and moments
lost. Too cold to dance, I'm left
to ponder, alone. My Atlas
shrugged. Wondering if
the world's not really flat, because
I feel like I've
found the edge.
Is it true? If so, where do I go
from here? Someone want to
call Columbus or should I? Because
somebody has been lyin' and a confession
is in order. Where was my catcher in
Caught up in my own sense of
Directionless and duty-
This is where the sidewalk ends
but I can't call retreat.
just be soap box standing
like a Cracker Jack commander
with a call behind
while I take a long look