Two Poems
Jon Cone

Literary Anecdote Under Pressurized Skies

On the floor I think of that famous
photograph of Dostoevsky where
he slumps in great coarse coat.
His face a mask of dark weariness.
I am a mean man, a sick man.
Prison, seizures, drink. A thunderhead
approaching, these thoughts.
In his breast pocket a single folded sheet
where he pinned in weak script his impossible debts.

O Red Mass Rendered from Spitting Fats

My severed! Lonely, apart!

Rough-edged, bloody!

Where did you go? More important:
what did the blossoms say?

I bought the milk and eggs like you told me to.

Then my ghost, my clown
sundered your chest like a mildewed ice-box.
Then I climbed out from the river.