desperation

a single black crow
caws from his perch atop a mesquite tree
deep in the Mojave Desert.

it watches me pass as i wander by,
waiting on my collapse and
a skull upon which to feed.

gillian anderson

she sits across from me uninvited
late night at a Starbucks near Hollywood

hi, i’m…

yeah, i know
            i say, voice cracking suddenly 15 or 18
            or something less than 58

you dedicated something, to me

yeah, i did

she takes a bite of blueberry muffin

i slug back the remains of my coffee

congrats on the Emmy,

congrats on the book, can you sign my copy?

yeah, of course

i follow her up a long driveway,
in a town that’s not Bel Air or Beverly Hills
she unlocks the front door, kisses me in the foyer
holds out her hand at the foot of the stairs

i keep it in my bedroom,
            she says, red hair cut short, blue eyes sparkling

next to the Emmy?

yes, of course

her main bedroom is massive
king bed, couch, fire place
sitting area, treadmill, walk in closet,

wanna shower first?
            she says, unexpectedly
            her clothes bread crumbs leading to her silhouette

before i sign my book?

yes, before that

i follow quickly,
just as my fever breaks

and i wake up

norm

i keep thinking of
this old man
this old poet
a man i barely knew
other than a few
notes traded
back & forth

this old man
down in the Village
he’s dead now
almost a year
maybe two
i can’t keep track

lots of folks die

i think about
his words
legacy
how everything
stopped
when he died

maybe that’s how
it’s works

everything stops
when you’re dead

but maybe
if one person
keeps thinking about
an old man
an old poet

more than just words
carry on

maybe that’s legacy
maybe that’s
enough

for norman savage

victim

the thick wet sound
of shotgun blast
rips from the apartment
next door
and i race

ten steps down
the hall
to investigate.

Cecilia stands in
the doorway,
her cigarette
smoking as much
as the end of the shotgun
in her hand.

she smiles at me
through broken teeth,
     skin bruised; clothes torn
takes a long drag
and says,

maybe now somebody’ll
listen to me?

cops tramp up old wooden steps
guns drawn
scream in unison,
get down, get down

and Cecilia turns
her head and says,

then again,
maybe not…

jack henry is a queer writer based in the high desert of south-eastern california.  in 2020 jack’s third collection, driving w/crazy, was released by Punk Hostage Press.