j. palmer horst —  August 20, 2014 — Leave a comment

a classroom is a lonely place
you sit pencil in hand listening
(or hearing) lectured knowledge
uttered perpetually with periodic
pauses—dead air, answerless faces
occasionally allowing greater silence
than you would ever allow at home.

that noiseless hum of empty
void which echos whoareyou
(or the truly horrific) whyareyou.

in that humming nothing it is only me
a momentary, darkling solipsist.


j. palmer horst —  July 24, 2014 — 1 Comment

The downpour left me stranded,
Cold by the over-airconditioned
Indoor coffeeshop air. A girl was
Waiting for it to let up and that is
When I remembered I forgot
My umbrella in my car.


j. palmer horst —  July 15, 2014 — Leave a comment

I loved without knowing what it might have been
Tonight with maybe-you(knowing what is was
You ripped out the me parts of me)
I am a fool–and partliar–
Consuming me while
Wretching you

time is a fragile thing this woman once said
it makes you wish you hadn’t done what you did
sitting with a cigarette hanging from my mouth
sitting next to business men and poor teenagers
in a glass enclosed “designated smoking area”
the passengers rushing to gates A5 through A15
couldn’t help but look at this quarantined cage
where those smokers with their ashes were
(maybe we wished we hadn’t done what we did)
smoke, smoke, smoke—people are watching.

tempered firm by rushing water,
I wear the eyes of dying heat,
happy in the coming slaughter
I am that chattel ripped from wheat
chilled away by coming winter
diminishing and incomplete

time is a fragile thing this woman once said
it makes you lose the things you never had
an airport gate soon becomes an eerie place
eyes twitching from person to phone to nothing;
fifteen minutes more; fifteen minutes to boarding
thumbs are flicking through florescence
next to me is a girl I hope is sitting next
to me when it matters—but it won’t matter.
(maybe I never would have had her)
flick, flick, flick—people are watching.

is time spent waiting time made lost?
static love is static water
sickness hidden by the frost
I am bleeding on this altar
this bitter winter moving through
loving me before I falter

time is a fragile thing this woman once said
it makes you forget what you wished you remembered
I’ve never been to salt lake city.  just the airport.
I’m not touring or learning or anything,
I am on some pilgrimage toward another place.
I got what I deserved, what wasteland was given
I’m smoking, she’s sitting, they’re flicking—
forgiveness is harder when you’re the sinner
(maybe I wanted to forget what I remembered)
run, run, run—people are watching.

and otherwise,
weighed according to your
concrete heart
is something less than nothing
more than you.

once you kissed me
(only you meant it)
once you left me
(only you meant it)

outside of you
all that I am
measured next to your
walled-up soul
is something less than life
more than love

outside of we
neither you or I
are either.

So Kip (my roommate and one of my greatest friends) and I are both poets.  We started this exercise with our great friend Ross (you can see the beginning here).  We would each write a poem, and then pass to our right, and then, write a version of the same poem in our own style.  It has created some of my greatest poetry.  You’ve seen many results or creations recently.  Here is an illustration, with Kip’s poem:

Kip’s Poem
When to the break of brackish shores
We feel a salty bay lift us up to the sun
My grandfather said to never panic
In the water, one could survive off of
A beer can of air, and this was after
He committed to the afterlife, one beer
Can of breath expelled through the bloody
Sheets of three sheets of: Our nada who
Art in nada, nada be thine name, forever
We floated though in a flow of liquids
Like the kind that my friend Erbelding
Studied in fluid dynamics II, or is the world
Not nada, but chemically cold-Beta endorphins
Only a shallow way to express a spiritual whole?

My Poem
three or four or ten drinks in
or when the wine turned back to water—
having failed what we set out to do
which was some bullshit like community
building—we sat in the moonsoaked sea
with waves wetting our extremities
afraid of what’s to come or what is
or everything and nothing and ——
fuck the cold
fuck the water
we are the everlasting thought that eats itself.
what is spirit if even body is lost to ocean?


j. palmer horst —  June 29, 2014 — Leave a comment

A man lay under an overpass
Content with his halfburnt
Wallace Stevens and ripped
William Carlos Williams
While at the same time
I sat in a 13hundredamonth
Apartment attempting to write
This poem about a girl I didn’t love
On my 3hundreddollar tablet.