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Jon Teets

Jon Teets lives in Scottsdale, AZ with his wife Lori and two Old English Sheepdogs, Marlowe and Sidney. He's been published in The New Formalist, (Sic) Verse & Vice, Optic Magazine, Laughing Lions, and Jocundity.

 


On the varieties of illusion worth having 

mirage: An unuttered oasis allows a voyeur 
        limited impunity through a hot tear 
        trickling down the desert's convex glass. 
a dark figure in the night. quiet!, my cold, unbroken jewels! 
then, in a warm dream i feel i feel i'm in a bowl of porridge. 
later, I pay for this. brightest Angels, gray-for-yellow sheiks, 
      sneer black & come, their turbines fluttering & 
              dripping blood & i am 
              strangely happy. 

the bottle is completely there but isn't. 
choice: we (you & I), will NOT speak more about the bottle. 
the bottle was just there wasn't it? 
   is that (I,) the transparent fearful bottle? 

I see the shatter in mid-flight; 
glass flecks spark apart & or the strobe of space in-falling. 
A breaking bottle is a flower being taught 
       not to let the sunlight in. 
& I can see this, 
& I can see this, 
& I can see this!: 
a breaking bottle is a flower 
       learning not to let the sun's light in. 
A bottle, breaking, is an albino orchid feeling its 
       way 
       in 
       the 
       dark 
       while the sun comes in. 

this train is 
        bound for Glory, 
                  this train. 
                  If I hold my peace: 
                               (& let the Lord fight my battles.) 

out over deep water there's an unread message in a Klein bottle. 
is the cork the way the water waves? 
the arc of the dog, a benzene dream recalling Ode to Joy, circles. 
   sparks assemble behind the perimeters of quiet retinas, bypassing the optic nerves. 
   outside my shiny pupils old moons circle, 
   swelling up & cold & white 
like frozen tears. 


© Jon Teets


Revision
Oh, I believe in Yesterday. Paul McCartney

Of his new donnée, her once dad said
I was a piece of meat, and set just there.
The trances had much splattered blood
when Beth remembered up her past
in great articulation. Dad at top,
the ropes, and toys took in her resignation.
The trance's blood, and Beth remembered 
two years' trances, for the church, made
dad and mom let go most friends,
unlearned as Beth remembered.
Unwishing held mute sisters up,
as all-filled Beth, yet more, remembered. 
                                        A 
coat hanger's reminiscence 
made a cold new declaration: 
Beth's own body's recollection, 
its best vestments and fine traps, 
showed nothing but a virgin.

© Jon Teets


The Lepidopterist Lovingly Disjuncts His Niece
For Cuttlefish

And you want him to be the other butterfly
wing, and jointly to you, intermingled meat
in center; your diminutive mutual legs for right-
ing, fixing; blotting the cocoony hobbledehoy.

You want to flitter about in the windy buffet,
incautious; so bound to a middle, a moveable
pivot, one's more sure than ground. You'd Amble 
in air, happy lappets from Devonshire to Somerset, 

pace the night to miss the owls. This bond,
alas, along the hinge is mucilage, and works
the flaps to part, as want alone or single fix
to a kiteless string no sky can hold beyond

where needless reaches tired; no, air would not foil.
Better, a pair of Monarchs meeting blow for blow,
rowing out a similar flutter wake, but free to go;
this cement alone takes flight, holds firm with toil.

© Jon Teets


Moved by Heraclitus, Plato Hastens to the Side of Socrates, but Too Late

There's a formal Lisp in being - lent 
to slight buffoons - indeed, a jailbreak nerve
would practice to redress a palate's cleft 
by dint of arteries hard by what they'd serve.

It hurts, by heaven, half a cent's defeat -
the clothes of closing on old Henry 8
the chides, the jibes, 
black flowers the dead can't greet,
a pair of seals in tow unsure RE:

collections of coherence. Snow job. Camus
could hardly set such strange despair
or stupor -- Clarity's a ruse
among those destined for the wooden chair.

Why does one slur for such an Attic sleep?
A cock lets go, the Spartans will retreat.

© Jon Teets


Hurler Avec Les Loups 

We have but Cressida's music; once the body 
can no longer siphon, saturates in opiates, 
new laws are posited to lay out Mahdi 
Love of what once was. 

Goes on treating all the world civil, clinks 
in coffers and contented, reminiscing smiles - 
Lazarillo de Tormes in Cretan ranks, 
a solemn décor on the tiles. 

And Johnny is sung home again, and Helen 
dreams of Paris; Gods dole isomorphic woes. 
Three rounds are danced by a golden 
boy winning in Las Vegas -

songs wash out in happy chants 
of fortunate Puerto Rico.

© Jon Teets