The Official Website of

Terence E. Jackson

Visionary Multi Media Artist

Words

POETRY

EARNING MY

MISTAKES

How Can I teach you about life
For I too have walked
Walked away
Torn
Between feeling partial joy and partial sadness
The great divide
The me
The my
The mine
My mo me me me-might have
I too have sat
Listening to good people and good things
Talk talk
Talking about the yester
The day until today
When I bring the unfortunate news
Crisp white linen is not enough
For God is a void
Devoid
This void
This hole disparately aching to be filled holy
By that something
Or that someone missing
Missing miss ing Liss ing
Listening to people
Talk talk talk talk ing
Speak speak ing
Change chang ing
Hands
Swaying
As preachers preaching
Speak only to the choirs of their God
Devoid
A void
Of this void

But where is the talk of ole wives tales
The lessons lesson lessoned learned
Not written but spoken in long drawn out musty text
Beautifully unfolding over the course of hot humid do-dog days
While we sit motionless
Nose wiped scented
While in nostrils our memories of mint julips and biscuits
Lay fading like tattered photographs at our feet

I too have lingered like oms in the temple
Unwilling to move towards enlightenment
I too have been forcibly spewed from the mouths
Bittersweet like the snuff chewed by the old women
Rocking rocking rock ing on porches
While the old men waited and waited unwelcomed
Broken
Defeated
At the gates of Carthage
All the while
Remembering the weight of their separation
Remembering their struggle struggled struggling
To grip grasp grab whole to
The magnitude of it all
While their children children burst adult like
Mother father strung up strung out of and on something or someone
Disparately realizing that to live motionless
One has to find a way to squeeze past the honoring of oneself
By doing doing do ing
The unspeakable
Spoken holy not in truth but in tongues
Tongues long since forgot
Language languishing untamed

I to have come to realize the importance of revalidating the journey
My journey
A Journey past mirrored halls
Reflecting reflections of
I who no longer am committed to the cultivation of success
Learning to live
Having learned to learn
I am having to pick up of the sharp shard remnants of my things unfulfilled
I am learning to live life by earning my mistakes
And loving the holiness of loving that which is deemed unlovable.

Helpful

Arrogant

Kind

Cruel

Honest

Liar

Gentle

Hateful

Loving

Selfish

TO J. B.

The world

Thinking it was

James Brown

Took a sip

Of nectar

Only to fall

Down

Laughing

All

Her beauty

PUTTING GOOD HANDS TO USE

There are times

I want to tear out my eyes

Seen enough violence

To last lifetimes

There are times

I want to cut off my ears

Heard more suffering

Than one heart should bare

There are worst times

When hate wells up

Mouth burning like oven

Unsure

Nothing comes to mind

Shove fist in mouth

Quietly

Walking away

LOST

I am

Memory

Retaining

Names

Numbers

Lost

I am

Black

On call

Waiting

Lost

I am

Remembrance

Like water

Fire water

Paradise

Lost

ABORTIONS AND GREEN TEA

Approaching my car

Protesting abortions

Right light green sweaters

On shoulders

Play clothes

Unaware how I feel

Minimum waged

Out paint your sign

Rattling inside

Mind the cause

Will find you

Making green tea

Waiting like me

For your nails

Light red

To dry

LITERARY

TREES

from the short story collection

DOWN HERE BELOW

Daniel ran as fast and as hard as he could. He did not stop until he was as far away from the sight and the sound of his stepfather as he could get to on foot. His tears had dried in the rush of air, leaving traces of their existence upon his small cheeks. Daniel always ran to the trees when he had a problem. Looking around to make sure he had not been followed, he asked, "How could my mom have married such a mean creep?"

Daniel took out a small pocket knife. It had been a gift from his real dad. His father had died in the September eleventh tragedy, two years ago. Daniel began to carve his name into one of the trees. Digging deeper and deeper into the wood, he hugged the tree tightly with his other hand. "Yeah, you trees are a lot like me. You don't say much." He thought.

A tiny drop of sap began to appear where Daniel's blade was busy carving. The trees were a lot like him. They too kept their secrets amongst the leaves. They had somehow learned just as he was learning, how to keep their pain inside.

SWALLOW

A Novel

(work-in-progress)

The thought of summer had come early this year. When in fact, it was only the middle part of spring. The last few weeks had seen the temperature rise higher and higher. Until one no longer thought of the cool pleasures of springtime but of the long hot dry dog days that would most surely lay ahead. The weathermen, busy, repeatedly predicting, no rain, nor comfort for weeks to come.

The only time one really remembered it still being spring, was in the early hours of the morning. That wonderful time between 5 and 9 am, when the air was pleasantly cool and filled with the slight scent of lavender or honeysuckle or myrtle, growing in the trees; the fragrances of which crept in silently through the open windows. The lush shadowy greenness of the dogwood's and their pungent aroma, adding comfort from the rising sun's rays.

It was moments like these, that caused Moses to be reminded of childhood and the innocence of his youth. He would be turning forty in just a few days. But it was the simplest of pleasures that occupied his mind as of late. The smell of freshly cut grass or watching the steam as it rose from the sun baked sidewalks, during the afternoon showers.

excerpt from the novel

HEAVEN aka

N*****'S HEAVEN

I am dead. I know this, just as surely as I know the day, Tuesday. I am dead. I know this, 'cause when I walk down the street, the old men and the old women smile politely and say hello. I don't answer back. Some of them even try to shake my hand.

Sometimes I am struck by the fact that life has buffered their skin but not their hearts. Their skin is soft, loose, like a favorite leather jacket. Like the one I wanted when I was sixteen. Never did get it. I could never save up enough bread. Funny, how I remember things I should forget and forget things I should remember. I hate all these motherf... every last one of 'em. Living, breathing. Constantly reminding me that they are alive.

Sometimes, I stop and stare into their faces. These night people, the eternal image of what might have been. Staring at 'em, the muscles in my face tighten, my thick lips curl upward, and my eyes narrow their gaze. The coils in my back, ready to spring. I wanna smash in their faces. Sometimes I do. That is, when the junk runs out and my habit comes down.

I am dead. Dying... I know this is true. Can't stop it from happening. Maybe once upon a time I could have, when I was living, breathing, but that was forever and tomorrow's a long time ago.

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