One of my short stories was rejected. On the Fourth of July (which was awful in its own right). I wallowed in my woe-is-mes for a while before throwing back a Jack and shaking off the dirt. That’s that. Now it’s forward again.
Anyway, here’s a poem from Aug. 2011
Made for Nomads
J.C.D. Kerwin
And now I’m a wasteland:
a landscape of sparse vegetation
and temporary fires
for the world to pass by
and forget I was,
once,
an ocean.
It’s hot here in New York, folks.
And it made me think of this:
And that makes me thinks of summertime when I was just a wee one, rockin’ out to Golden Oldies tunes in my grandmother’s kitchen while she made pies for my uncle’s restaurant.
But all that has nothing to do with this poem I wanted to post.
Great Big Fish Bowl
J.C.D. Kerwin
I wake up drowning
because the faucet’s running in my head.
It’s like a fish bowl made of
brick and stone,
and there’s already goldfish
sliding through my ears.
I open my mouth,
but nothing but gurgles
and bubbles escape my lips.
My tongue toys with the idea
of eating flakes for breakfast,
and I can’t help but stare
at my reflection in the glass.
But I’m not made of scales;
I’m made of water,
and I don’t know how to swim.
April, 2011
Well, maybe it does because it’s water-y. I guess I just want to go swimming, danget.
White Red Refuse
J.C.D. Kerwin
I begin:
unblemished and pristine,
like the first fallen snow
at the end of November.
But soon,
I am dirtied and yellowed,
bloodied from the corpse
of a deer carcass:
forgotten in January.
June, 2012
J.C.D. KERWIN 
