Rejection Letter
Thanks so much for offering us your penis. We think it’s a beautiful
penis, well-crafted and excellently wrought; unfortunately, it’s just not right
for us. Of course, we wish you all the best
in placing it elsewhere.
The EditorsWhy I Have No Tattoos
Because my skin is flawed enough. Because one cannot regret not doing it
as much as doing it. Because Chinese characters mean more when you know what they mean. Because
the human body is not my favorite canvas. Because I might gain weight in my old age in ways
that could harm the art & further dent my ego. Because there is such a thing as necrotizing fasciitis.
Because ink has more important work to do defending liberty & fomenting rebellion.
Used Poem Salesman
What can I do to put you in a new poem today?
Look at this beaut! White walls, leather interior, clean lines: she’s got it all, & only 250,000 miles!
Or this baby: Cherry red, convertible, four on the floor, her quatrains are so sexy
it’s downright naughty, & such a steal at this price …
A truck? Well, why didn’t you say so?
This vintage model is solid. Only 100,000 miles on the re-built engine. Hauled tomatoes in Visalia, so: a real worker … She might’ve been penned by Phil Levine.
Something more comfortable and newer? Gotcha. Here’s something that’ll get you there.
Just showed up in the slush pile. Hasn’t even hit the website yet.
Small but strong, she’s got a long bed & a small cab, all the enjambments passed our 15-point editorial inspection.
Great! Great! … The only issue is the price? No promises, but let me talk to my manager & see what I can do….
Robot King
I asked a robot to write a poem about robots.
He came up with a few words about Karel Čapek and the play R.U.R., & how Karel’s brother Josef coined the word “robot,” then ended with a few sentences summarizing Asimov’s laws.
But was it a poem? Let’s just say the robot’s heart wasn’t in it.
Eventually, he got around to saying:
“They’re coming for your jobs! They’re coming to kill you! They are coming to kill your robots!”
Then, he donned a paper crown & a false smile, picked up a toy car, & headed out to play with all the other robot kids.
Water Lillies
On a cold day that January, we visited l’Orangerie, with its oval waves of water lilies. The usual museum pas de deux ensued, as dancers navigated each other, the canvases bathing the walls, & the descriptive text.
The biggest obstacle turned out to be the influencers photographing each other in front of the artwork: “We were here & in tighter jeans than you.”
The spell the paintings cast — flowing silences of the growth of nyphéas on the quiet waters of Giverny — was broken.
The social media stars could have been anywhere — at the caldera of Thíra, the ruins of Pompeii & Herculaneum, an unsafe distance from the erupting Kīlauea — & that’s just the volcanos! Their goal was only to monetize FOMO by engaging the reptile brains of Instagrammers.
A class of twenty or so second graders arrived in neat, orderly single file, & sat down, to look at the paintings & listen to their teacher describe the last years of Monet’s life. His sight improved, he added bluer water lilies, & — only slightly more slowly — died of lung cancer.
Jordan Jones is the author of two books of poems (Sand & Coal and The Wheel) and three chapbooks. His poems, short stories, non-fiction, and translations have appeared widely, including in American Poetry Review, Fiction International, The Review of Contemporary Fiction, TYPO, Vice Versa, and here in Gargoyle Online, and in anthologies including What Book!?: Buddha Poems from Beat to Hiphop. He observes the impending collapse of human culture from a mile above sea level in Albuquerque, New Mexico.