October 2017
Jefferson Carter
carter7878@gmail.com
I live in Tucson with my wife Connie and volunteer with Sky Island Alliance, a regionally-based environmental organization. I am also poetry editor for Zócalo, a local arts magazine.  I'm an opportunist, not a poet with a plan.  Whatever catches my fancy, I write about: an engaging image, a political or environmental issue, a bit of zoology, an overheard conversation, and, of course, love, love, love. In grad school, I fell in love with Jonathan Swift.  Thirty years later, I still have to rein in my satirical impulses to protect whatever is tender in my poems. Diphtheria Festival, my tenth poetry collection, is now available from Main Street Rag Publishing.  My new website:    jeffersoncarterverse.com . 


BLAME SUTRA


I blame yoga, no, not yoga, I blame
Buddhism.  In Sanskrit, “modesty”
means not calling attention to yourself.
In American, “poetry” means calling
attention to yourself.  When I perform
(or “preform,” as the racing program
misspells it, “see the Budweiser Clydesdales
preform”), when I perform my poems, 
I want to clap a hand over my mouth.
Shut the fuck up & let someone else talk!
Those ghosts & mannequins around you,
they all have a tale to tell.  If you listen,
you’ll hear the breath that breathes us all.
Don’t & you’ll tell jokes like this: in Texas, 
foreplay means asking, “you awake?”

-from Get Serious: New and Selected Poems (Chax Press, 2013)


                                                                                              
DON’T GET ME STARTED


Last night at yoga
I listened to Elliot breathing
next to me like a patient
on a respirator.  What if
there really is a soul?
Something the color
of duct tape or transparent
as plastic sheeting?
“Think about it,” I say
at breakfast.  My wife glares
& tries to hide behind the classifieds.
She’s tired of my negative bullshit.
“Duct tape!  Plastic sheeting!
Gee, I wonder why they’re 
pushing petroleum products?”
She leaves the table, her toast
untouched.  Remember
chanting One! Two! 
Three! Four! we don’t 
want your fucking war?
Remember that  poster, girls say 
yes to boys who say no?
I said to a girl across the room                                                              
what if they gave a war
& nobody came?  I meant it,
it wasn’t bullshit, but she untied
her macrame halter top anyway.

I like that slogan, no blood
for oil.  Maybe I’ll record it
on our answering machine or 
shout it from our porch.  
“You know,” calls my wife 
from the other room, “if you were
happier, you’d be happier.” 

-from Get Serious: New and Selected Poems (Chax Press, 2013)

© 2017 Jefferson Carter
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