junkmail oracle

i s s u e




jason walter
jason walter is a toronto-based poet/actor who does performance art/spoken word/film. he has released a chapbook entitled "underneath my fortune". his one-man act includes storytelling, poetry and comedy. he also takes part in a performance art troupe called "theatre of the ignorant", which combines theatre and poerty. he recently made his on-screen debut in a short film called "sunday lunch". jason_walter@hotmail.com

Works on this page:
honestly alive
dry breeze
one-sided history


Honestly Alive

I am charmed by your comforting excuses,
Because terminal illness only misunderstands the art of nature,
That admission is barely bare considering your answers are religious,
My education neurotically achieves your well-adjusted forgetfulness directly from survival instincts,
But you only hear the clash of spatulas we conservatively duel each other with in the kitchen ware section,
The conventional lighting fails your judgment,
And spoils the faucet from not safely dripping,
So this dark room is a transparent sketch,
And I'm left with charcoal outlines mimicked by rotating starlight,
I am honestly alive for your ignorance.


Dry Breeze

Don't just sit there and falter,
you don't have a thing to gain,
my sleeve is in your mouth,
like a cow patty in the kitchen sink,
and your knees are padded,
which is confidential between doctors,
so lock the suitcase,
we'll be staying overnight,
and don't you sit on the nurse's lap,
no sanitation ain't worth the risk,
but you frisk her under the moonlight,
and the consequences are sealed tight,
the loan needs to be repaid,
and your under the weather,
in a designated shelter,
ailing from the gravel in your eye.


One-Sided History

A wooden leg on a mink farm sidewalk,
from a whipping boy with a swollen ear,
rushing to guard the TV repair shop,
from a calypso nun on horseback,
who trampled a jaywalking loan officer,
exhausted by traffic jam car horns.
A bi-plane pilot chokes on a borrowed parachute,
And the universe is in union at high noon,
His mother counts black holes on a pool table,
She is exhausted like an apocalyptic mule in a talking gym suit,
Letting palm trees eclipse the drowning sunset,
To give the light house that church bell glare.
Elvis won't wear unzipped jeans to the prom,
Because Columbus is concerned about old age,
That sailor couldn't phase at statue on a magazine cover,
showing his trophy as Armageddonís number one sex slave,
and his chlorine-stained wedding picture addiction,
the dream-riddled birth of blue collar loneliness.


stories & essays
art & photos & stuff

home page


copyright deep cleveland publishing, all rights reserved
comments: deepcleveland@hotmail.com