October 18-24, 1999: James Lee Jobe and Mary Jo Carr

Week of October 18-24, 1999

James Lee Jobe and Mary Jo Carr

James Lee Jobe


[From Davis, California] Recent or upcoming poems in TULE REVIEW,  PEARL, POETRY NOW, MOCKINGBIRD, ZAM BOMBA!, BLUE MOON REVIEW,  and other fine publications Most recent chapbook is 7 DAYS IN YOLO, 1999, ONE(DOG)PRESS.

The following work is Copyright © 1999, and owned by James Lee Jobe and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsover without written permission from the author.

Nixon’s Body, Dug Up By Wolves

He had finally stopped sweating For once
Nixon didn’t look like he was trying to sell
us a ’65 Ford Galaxy with an off-color
hood His body jerked and flipped as
wolves, in winter, tore long, dry strips of
flesh from Nixon’s carcass, chewing on
sinew under the moonless sky Nixon’s
internal organs were already gone and
his bones hung like sugar skeletons inside
his skin When the grizzly meal was finished
the wolves trotted off, their almost silent
footsteps fading into the trees.

What The Hog Said

They give me food, so I stay How wonderful to have nothing more
expected from you then pleasant obesity I eat, therefore I am! It is

so beautiful the way the corn goes down, the joy of the swallowing;
the humans miss all that! They worry about numbers, bolts of cloth, 

what color the shed is, and why the chickens aren’t laying! Fools!
The food is why I am here! I eat now, so they can eat later; it is a

simple plan If not for the glorious food I’d push on, move west I’d stand on my hind legs and just walk away from it all.

Van Gogh, Reborn as a Jobe, 
is Attracted to a Paint Display
at the General Store

He is drawn to the paint, feels pulled in by the colors, 
he wants swirling blues, golds
that flow like wind blowing across fields of wheat, 
he needs to create something that is greater than himself
The answer, he knows, is in the paint, so mysterious, so new
He purchases the paint, a determination
to capture the image in his mind fills him However, in this life, he is hampered with his own Jobeness, 
so he paints his chicken coop in the starry, starry night,
his wife on the back porch calling out, “J.L , honey, 
ain’t you coming in to supper?”

Mary Jo Carr


My name is Mary Jo Carr I live in Pensacola, Florida I’m Executive Director of United Ministries; a Christian ministry dedicated to the prevention of homelessness Some of my poetry and a few essays have been published, but mostly I write for self-expression when ‘the world is too much with me ‘

The following work is Copyright © 1999, and owned by Mary Jo Carr and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsover without written permission from the author.

Image of Caroline

The wedding March fades
And she stands facing the altar
With tiny orchids pinned in her hair
The Operating Room is full of people
And I am strapped on the table,
Belly bulging upward like a huge beach ball Green drapes are placed, but I can see myself
In the mirrors above the table Tension mounts, the incision is made,
My heart pounds and I begin to be nauseated,
And then I hear, ‘It’s a girl, and she beautiful!’
She cries, a loud, protesting wail Everybody cheers and they bring her to me,
Wrapped in a well-washed blanket,
With a trickle of blood on her forehead
And masses of dark curls My arms are strapped down and I can’t touch her
But my soul sends a kiss to hers as I whisper,
‘Welcome, my little daughter ‘
They take her away to the nursery,
And the next time I see her
She has tiny orchids
Pinned in her hair
(May, 1994)

Missing You

The fading sunshine shimmers
Through the handsewn sheer curtains
Hanging over the glass doors
Leading to the backyard and the pool
The empty rooms are dimly lit
And ghosts are dancing in the kitchen
And up and down the stairs,
A lonely dance of a past remembered
Painter’s tools are strewn about,
The only sign of habitation
In the still life of the vacant house Which still holds your heartbeat
(June, 1996)

Reflections on a Common Lesson

The tide comes in
And goes out
Forever and ever Amen
At the center
Is an unshakable source
Of infinite energy
Whose rhythm does not change
That rhythm, that energy
Are accessible to me
If I can quiet myself
To receive them
I can become
Part of the flow
If I can accept
The ebb

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