Friday, February 14, 2014

Forgotten Pockets By Jasen Sousa

Forgotten Pockets

Puddles and other places 
I am seen throughout the day, stranger
to the world and to myself.  A portion 
of my being slowly evaporates underneath
Weeping Willows and AC’s that droop
out of 3rd floor windows.  I walk past a park
in the middle of July and watch
balls fly, there is no place that kids have to be.

Reminders of intruders 
who party on the balcony of my conscience.  
I carry a lot with me in different compartments,
but it is the items I have left inside of forgotten pockets
that I desire to reintroduce to my fingertips.  

Falling out of my dreams, parachutes 
containing incomplete goals imagined 
on dim-lit days.  My toes yearning to be comfortable 
inside damp, disfigured boots.  My previous success 
is an equation I can no longer compute.  

I walk swiftly past store windows to avoid eye 
contact with the man no longer intact, the man
in black, black backpack, black hat, swallowing
a black......gun.  Future memories blown out the back
landing in cracks where the sidewalk and street meet, until
a machine comes by and sweeps them away.

Roofers that quit and didn’t take the ladder down.  Good kid,
madder now, scowl, molded angry brow because there
are forces which will not allow the man I witness 

throughout the day to be present now.

Sunday, January 19, 2014

White Noise Alex Foster Elegy By Jasen Sousa

White Noise

Alex Foster Elegy By Jasen Sousa


Drift asleep with the TV on.

White noise.  Actors and actresses recite

words that someone else wrote.  Wrinkles that form

on facial temples and creep toward the cornea are scientific evidence

that it hurts to watch.  Vibrations, humming, buzzing, and then

it shatters! A glass bottle filled

with the purest liquid mankind is capable of creating.

It freezes on the pavement during

a frigid January evening.


Drift asleep with the lights on.

White noise.  Navigate through midnight

canals on an unsteady raft dimly

lit by translucent rays that sneak through manhole covers.  Unfamiliar

friends stand on the outskirts of intelligence and imagination, snickering,

whispering directions to destinations

you do not wish to return to. 


Drift asleep with the internet on.

White noise.  Crowds watch you rest, listen

to you breathe and record the exact number

of seconds it takes for your chest to raise and lower. 

Take gossip off the walls, place it into a blender,

pour the truth into a spray paint can

and tag the world with the most flamboyant font

it has ever witnessed. 


Drift asleep with the radio on.

White noise.  Let the lyrics put

you in a peaceful rest, but before they do

make sure you memorize the verse

about the single rim attached to a rusty backboard

that you can hang on all day without ever coming down,

the verse about the thinker and philosopher that left behind quotes

and ideas that didn’t get the opportunity to take shape,

and finally, the verse about the artist that left an unfinished charcoal sketch

containing countless interpretations

of what it means to be free. 

Alex Foster Tribute Video By Jasen Sousa

Saturday, May 18, 2013

Old Pay Stubs

Old Pay Stubs

"For DZ"

By Jasen Sousa 

Evenings after still frozen dinners

and days before his envelope would be flung

to him like a bone, across a cigarette scarred

wooden break room table, he would stooper in his damp

work clothes.

Boot laces tied tightly around his tender ankles,

socks folded back hair on his legs

in ways it was not meant to be bent,

knees pressed against his pants

like a child's face to a window on a misting Saturday.

There were no dishes to scrape clean, no

trash, but a waste basket filled with wrinkled

receipts that angered him every time

he walked by. 

He remembered it all like he needed

to be back the next morning at 7:00 A.M.

as he slept uncomfortably nude on top

of tucked-in sheets starring at a tie which hung

over the back of a chair swaying like a clock pendulum

from an after midnight May breeze. 

Friday, January 18, 2013

Nature's Manual Poem by Jasen Sousa (For My Aunt)

Nature's Manual



An empty pair of slippers rests

next to the leg of an empty chair.  A newly

started book, spine arched at a curious

angle by the window.  Steam from near-by simmering coffee

dissipates as shadows nap underneath bridges waiting

to dance with sunrise. 


Blinking traffic lights sway in shallow puddles

without anyone else on the road to interfere.  A long

winter, almost over, camping mounds of stubborn snow

still not fully melted.  Slopping branches of leafless

sycamore trees tap your shoulders,

eager for a reunion. 


Cafes in the local square have shut down

for the evening, unaware of what you had left to spend.  You gaze

through a toy store window, drawn to trains

that never stop traveling, drawn

to a smirking clown who makes you forget

you ever aged at all.


It is getting late and you hear your parents

calling you home.  They have neatly tucked in

your chair, put away your slippers, and left a dim light

on in your room, just bright enough for you to see

what is necessary when you arrive.




And when you awake in spring

you will be welcomed by wondering skies

painted auburn by hands no longer restricted

Monday, December 17, 2012

Draft of, It’s Later than Early, from a future project tentatively titled, “Dampness”

Its Later than Early By Jasen Sousa

Its Later than Early


The thought was trapped

inside a Boston tunnel

stuck behind guilt and red break lights,

surrounded by yellow

hues which couldn't even inspire

small insects to walk freely

on unbalanced land

that was fraudulently built.


It was still like a puddle

resting on a dawn city street,

like a half-smoked

cigarette that leaked smoke

long after a flick

from his calloused fingers.


His paycheck ended up

inside the palms of charismatic

bartenders and agile women

who shook as much as the dreams

he could no longer conjure up.


When the future is nothing

but a weekend, and reality is nothing

but the time you get home from work.


Inside an empty apartment,

inside an empty fridge

where eyelids are unbalanced

and dusty as the blinds

that kept him hidden

more than the stained uniform

that bared cursive letters

arranged in way that no longer spelled his name.


It was quiet like the vision

that never propelled him to move forward,

like the vocal cords

which never allowed him

to formulate great words into meaningful sentences


It's later than early

and his hands remained inside

his empty front pockets, warm, comfortable,


afraid to touch objects

coated with layers of freedom.

Saturday, November 10, 2012

Draft of, Elderly Rainbows, from a future project tentatively titled, “Dampness”

Elderly Rainbows By Jasen Sousa


He desired to shape concepts into objects

unknown by man.  Instead, that which bubbled

inside his head transformed into dented

cans that looters wouldn't bring back

to their sacred land.


He wondered how to mold abstract ideas

into something concrete that would serve as foundation

for cities and paved streets. Instead they sat, untouched

by human hands like sand on winter beaches.


He hoped for something specific, like tales

written on wooden ship sails, memorized

by the Atlantic and Pacific.  But it's like

he never existed, slept in the same house

that became empty as the gambler's account.


His growth rested underneath barriers

of skin and pleasure like lawns

buried underneath frozen leaves and snow.

His desires sat like used cars with

fog on their windshields and a slight drizzle

on their frames, as brush grew along

sagging fences weighed down

by the poet's unwritten sentences.


He wanted to find a way to bottle rainbows

in oil-slicked puddles, before they disappeared

like eyeglass dents on the elderly man's nose,

before it was too late to notice what he swept away.