October 5-11, 1998: Jason Cox and Chuck Henson

Week of October 5, 1998-October 11, 1998

Jason Cox and Chuck Henson






Jason Cox


I was born in Indiana, but last year I moved to California I grew up wanting to be a fighter pilot, a filthy rich businessman, or a super- genious scientist, but I’ve fallen into the body of a musician, a poet, an actor, and an artist I write poetry for many reasons, but chiefly among them is the need for self-expression.

For the last two and a half years, I’ve been publishing a (print) magazine called “VOiCE”, featuring all kinds of art, poetry, and writing from people all across the planet (If you’re interested in submitting something for publication, please contact me ) I also try to attend local poetry readings and open mic nights as much as possible, as I enjoy “performing” poetry as much as I do writing it I also started the Poetry Chat Room, with the idea of having one room shared by many poetry-centered web pages (Please come by on Saturday nights it’s guaranteed to be interesting!)

Some of my poetry is strong or aggressive, and by some, might even be considered “offensive” But I speak from the heart, I choose my words with purpose, and I stand behind every line I’ve ever written.

The following work is Copyright © 1998, and owned by
Jason Cox and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsover without written permission from the author.


it is what i want
it is what i have chosen
if i can only achieve half of happiness
then give me misery
misery always is better than knowing
the finiteness of peace
if beauty is the curse bestowed
or a curse withheld
than give me ugliness
give me the scar
if trust is pain
than give me treason and lies
if honesty is vulnerability
and pride is nudity
then beat me
break me
bury me under folds of cloth
layers of false color and character
bare ruin rot rest within
i confess and i acquiesce my humanity
i give in to the storm
my skin will tear at the rain
and mother earth will break open and take me in
i am made imperfect
and suffer for my lack of humilty
i break shatter and disperse
under the voice of the mass
i fold dilute and integrate
with the collective universe
right and wrong does not exist
they are my imagination
which is trivially controlled
my hands no longer reach for the throat
reality opens once again
revealing a new face
a new dimention
i am the orifice
it shall enter
i will accept it
and be destroyed.

litter in the garden of eden

assorted cross colors of
standing sitting sleeping
eyes with lashes longer
than american eagle wingspans
stretching further posing harder
and her ovaries shrivel
because mommy called her “chubby”
she leans into her ivory well
offeratory to magazine goddesses
she can never find behind the looking glasses
pushing the little girl under the bright lights
camera eyes staring
wearing makeup before she learned to multiply
she only smiles in the corner
by herself
she sneaks and steals and lies
and feels guilty later
if she’s caught

wrapped in dark blankets
inhaling my dark cigarette
smiling at me as if i were another camera
my words staring
but never heard


twisting to the broken surrender
erotic and wet
licking into your circles of power
ripped and torn
spreading your flesh before me
shouting and screaming
my burning eyes moving back and forth
delirious and violent
raping your neck with pain and blood
throwing you away
hitting myself and hating myself
performance of the mating dance
lost alone on the black sea
water urinating in my face
my hands come down on you
hurting as i gorge on your light
snaking underneath and inside
like a worm
with my nine hearts
going down on you
left nothing left
clearly transparent
green and obscene
pulling spittle from my eye and tasting your care
blinded in your brilliant emptiness
fucked cold
temporarily forgotten conveniently
simply casually pushed aside
smoke still escaping the barrel
not looking back at the stains
erasing my fingerprints
forgetting to say good-bye
left you used and wasted
ripped and torn
just like you always wanted

Chuck Henson


I live in Cartersville, GA (a short distance from Atlanta) I’m in my mid-twenties, and have been told I write much older whatever the heck that’s good for Between working at a local textile mill and keeping up with the rest of my life I enjoy reading, hiking, photography, and (obviously ;-)) computing My latest Web creation, The North Georgia Poetry Page, at http://members.tripod.com/~eorlingas/ keeps me busy most of my free time right now And I’m always adding new poems to my personal poetry page, Insights&Altruisms, at http://members.tripod.com/~eorlingas/mypoetry.htm

The following work is Copyright © 1998, and owned by
Chuck Henson and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsover without written permission from the author.

Kissing Poet Knowing

He came upon a morning frigid
Six-foot-five and walking rigid
Upon a shrouded mystery

Past Westminster Church in its warmth
Black clad stranger striding forth
48 years to the day

Torch-bearing ritual to perform
Upon the monument where others mourn
At the birth of day

Three red roses and cognac drowned
The poet, wife, and mother found
Strangers line the way

Standing in a longened toast to gone
Kissing poet upon the stone
In icy darkened day

For 48 years of watch I ponder
In icy darkness that I may wander
As strangers glide away

Mother’s Tears

Early April springtime rolling ‘cross the hills
A slight refreshment from within the mornings chills
Early morning raindrops touching window panes
Misty visions flowering along rain-soaked lanes
Joy in a breath of air born of fresh-cut grass
Passing of the Heavens, twilight skies brazen brass
Sudden streaks of merriment crashing through the clouds
Gentle sounding dreams abound, breaking up the crowds
Peace found in an awkward place so lost to time
With sorrow washed out by tears of Mother in Her prime

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