j t connor

silence: could you imagine?


the weight ov breath
slow to drop
to the nude dirt
ravaged with the moon’s
dropped linens,
a deep honey
that sticks our beings
to the earth
that ridicules our love.

oh, honey–we gulp
in presence ov
a sore throat
or in lust–
one more kiss
from those lips,
i yearn
that bloom–
precious perfume blossoms.

the petals continually
tickling the inside
ov my bull
hide tongue
as your beauty trickles sweet
down my throat
like the sap that dews
on the pine
which harden against
the bark
before it becomes
one with the body.





the spectacular human condition ov the ordinary housefly


isn’t it a spectacular idea? to question
the human condition, why one leaves a
chair and munches a damage ov roses into
hallucinatory repair, and replace the plastic
ov the chair as an ingrateful imaginary
consumer beast held firm by feeble frame,
rotting under the pale azure iris ov
slow blinking impala. the human,
their oak legs, no different form
from an ordinary housefly’s innocuous balance.

why squirm, buzz round, retract eyeball,
suck a sticky finger, smooch a toad more wet,
be a yellow soul swarm in the shell ov our
secret center, eat, interpret inertial
balance by a series ov manipulated organs,
die on an axis, aggravate antiquity, be a pock
on a wall, be a flustered fleck bled into inky
college-ruled paper, be that blemish on broken
windowpanes, be a juicy bold cherry poked through
a stolen shirt collar, casually hide a vigorous stride
unobtainable by the human eye,

why erect, one-pair ov wings, a fantastic
inclination to sense direction, develop past
the idea ov bipedal supremacy, hot-headed,
magma-mind, scatophiliac desire, oblivious
prowess, be displaced air caught between
romantic wing frequency, be a sweat droplet the
length ov an icicle, be mentally entrapped in
the god-drawn groin ov a fictitious tightrope walker
treading split spider webs because
the performer’s sweat is so lip-extending

why angry, angst, an angst that is an itch,
impulsive, be nature’s vibrato decimeter,
worship toes, be a spectacular buzzing
conundrum more durable than consciousness,
to return to the feeble white plastic chair
after excavating the cavities we so idolize
and sit in a chair like nothing.
isn’t it a spectacular idea?



j t connor (Jeremy T Connor) was born and raised in Tampa, Florida, and currently sleeps in New York City. He is awaiting MFA admission rejections for Fall 2024. He hosts and organizes anti-poetry shows throughout the year under the name “another drunk poetry nite.”