Jay Passer
Jay Passer's poetry first appeared in Caliban magazine in 1988, alongside the work of William S. Burroughs and Wanda Coleman. He is the author of 15 collections of poetry and prose and his work has been included in several anthologies as well as print and online publications worldwide. A debut novel, Squirrel, was released in 2022. A lifelong plebeian, Passer has labored as dishwasher, barista, soda jerk, pizza cook, housepainter, courier, warehouseman, news butcher and mortician's apprentice. Originally a native of San Francisco, Passer currently resides in Los Angeles, California. His latest collection of poems, Son of Alcatraz, released in 2024 by Alien Buddha Press, is available from Amazon.
The orthodontist gets off on the torture
Provides wheelchairs to the victimized
Plus a lollipop but only lemon flavored.
He’s an old man, so old he just might’ve
Escaped that notorious scorched-earth regime
will there be poetry
when there are no longer flowers
when honeybees are extinct
the privileged
luxuriating deep underground in their silos
you might be a break in the monotony
a saxophonist encouraging call and response
then you quit smoking for good
while I notice
in the middle of the night
a pair of scissors at my throat
ready to entertain kidneys and liver,
that’s
our girl. some days
she goes by Sunny.
yellow came and told me
paint a dog, find a corner
bodega, steal me some
of them Swisher Sweets, while
red gave me the finger, called
911, kicked me in the shins
to shatter
and shove
black reptilian oaths
vowed in penthouse palaces
back up their
vile asses
whistling pipes
whispering steam
prone on the mattress, breathing in the strangeness
the ceiling like a penalty in the game of visualization
