JON CARTER - POEMS

Jon Carter is a writer from Lufkin Texas.  His poetry and prose is heavily influenced by his own life and his writing is grunge-fueled and honest.  He has published work in Down in the Dirt Magazine, The Airgonaut, Literary Yard and Leaves of Ink.

World is a Pit
​

I have this habit
of walking with my
feet out in 
front
of me.
like I’m leaning forward
into something
invisible. 

heavy. most of my 
life
being
200 - 220
pounds.
barrel chest. 
a mostly disinterested face. 

everything shakes when 
I walk.
tables.
spoons.
brains inside of skulls.  

I always keep my
feet pointed
forward.
I lean like I’m 
going to tackle the
world
to the ground.

and I’ve learned to not
hang around those
I intimidate when
I first meet them,
they only spend
the rest of the 
time
around me
putting me down
to make 
themselves
feel
better 
about how
they 
think.

I drink I write I laugh.
I stomp off in whatever
direction
I choose.

these are just some of
the things I’ve made
up my mind about
doing…

back when I was still young. 

​

​The Bridge

we were poor
when I was young
and it was dark.

I didn’t know where
anyone was but
earlier that day
my mom had taught me how
to shuffle cards. 

I was in the upstairs room.
the TV didn’t have any
channels but I
left it on and let
the static give me light.

I didn’t quite have the hang
of it.
the bridge.
the cards kept 
slipping out
of my hands. 

I wanted to get it down, 
though.
when my mom saw
me again I
wanted to be able
to show her 
I could do it. 

the night went
on and on
and I started getting
better.
one or two times I got it right.

then after a few
hours I had 
it down.
again and again.
perfect and perfect.

I did it over and over,
hoping at any moment
my mom would come
in and see me and recognize
the work I’d put in to get
it right. 

then the sun started
to come through the window.
I turned the TV 
off and went to the
curtains and looked
through 
them.

I stared, trying to make sense of it all.
the cards slowly
dropped
from my hand to the
floor. 



​

Easy Evening
​

I wake up like I do
50 push-ups, shower, 
coffee
work
work 
home
drink.

I scream FUCK
FUCK
FUCK 
tell my wife
I’m headed
out for a smoke.

well, she holds me
with her talking
about how I
have poor communication skills
well fuck
I know that
I’m 
staring
at the 
window sill
at the
400 dead 
flies
hanging out there peacefully 
as she talks and talks
and talks
and I nod my head slowly.

I leave
and hop in the charger
rev the engine
wave out my open
window at an old
man with
glasses
red shirt
cane.
he waves back.
I can’t talk but
damn it I can wave. 

well the gas station
is in the ghetto
and the ones that
don’t frequent
are easy to spot.  They slink around
with their heads bowed. 

I handle my business. 
I drink.
I smoke.
I write.

and I’d stand
before all the
world’s
armies.

and do the same damn thing. 

​