Your Problems with Containers
Bells peeled loud enough to spackle the subway maps with big black letters pointing egressively. Not loud enough for the marquee of an abandoned hotel where silver platter calling cards invite loose trousers to a birthday bashing.
Live and lean to in homes made from soda cans and half empty shampoo bottles, smelling of a lilac spring that erupts every thirty minutes. Foaming, its magma changes temperature when touched.
Dress makers everywhere set their swathes by it before they leave behind their machines to wander. Barefooted, velveteen footprints are left in rue toot cellars and wasp cocoons. They call their sons from inside phone booths nestled inside phone booth holders.
Cotton seed breezes blowing west, trick bats in their caves into flying south. They dot sky like rafts with wings, floating among the stars. Wait a mean while, watch from a parked car beneath the darkened seascape facsimile of sky.
Jason Graff's verse can be found in South85, Shuf Poetry, In Parentheses, Subterranean Quarterly, Third Wednesday, The Monarch Review, Meat for Tea, Canyon Voices, Ol’Chanty, BrickRhetoric, Split Rock Review and Firewords.
His fiction has been featured in Bosque Magazine, Per Contra, The Rampallian, The Vehicle, Sterling Magazine, Independent Ink, The Examined Life Journal, Nazar Look, Amsterdam Quarterly and the Romantic Ruckus Anthology.
He lives in Little Falls, NJ with his muse, wife and editor Laura and their cat Shelby.