Jason Crane Posts

Listen to this poem using the player above.

Umbrella

I’m bringing my umbrella in case it rains
I’m writing this poem in case it doesn’t

Last night you were out when I called
You’re often out these days, somewhere

I’d never noticed how empty a room could sound
Never wondered where these pans go

Sometimes I stand in the kitchen waiting for your voice
To tell me what to do next, who to be

Then the phone rings, full of hope, but it’s a bill collector
Looking for me to pay what’s owed

Everyone is looking for their due
But my cupboards are bare, my reserves are empty

And most of the time it’s raining
And I’ve forgotten my umbrella

Listen to this poem using the player above.

This poem was inspired by Normanskill poet Alan Casline’s poem “My Navajo Butterfly Song.”

Seeing Eye
(for Alan Casline)

The Navajo sign said “no photos” —
I prefer to think of it as advice, not warning,

encouraging us to capture images with the lenses of our eyes,
to store them on our natural hard drives.

“Doesn’t anybody ever just remember anything anymore?”
George Carlin asked. He was right.

We’ve become victims of instant nostalgia,
our minds grown lazy, our brains soft.

It’s so bad that I’ve forgotten the first line of this very poem,
and the way my sons looked when they were born.

My therapist said chronic depression impairs
the memory centers of the brain, causes

gaps

in the remembered narrative. That was a relief to hear.
I always wondered why my life was a highlight reel,

the entire three-plus decades condensed into three-plus minutes,
like always seeing the bus but never being hit by it.

The Navajo sign said “no photos.”
Pretty smart, those Navajo.

Listen to this poem using the player above.

Based on a recent New York City experience.

dead pigeon

dead pigeon on a gray sedan
gray sedan under a dead pigeon
dead gray pigeon sedan
gray dead sedan pigeon

heads turn, shake, pass
passing heads, shaking, turn
shaken heads pass, turning
shaken heads, turning, pass

soft feet slap pavement
soft pavement feet slap
slapping pavement, soft feet
slapping, soft, feet, pavement

head bleeding slow trickle
bleeding head trickle slow
slow bleeding head trickle
trickle bleeding head slow

gray dead sedan pigeon
dead gray pigeon sedan
gray sedan under a dead pigeon
dead pigeon on a gray sedan

Listen to this poem using the player above.

This poem was inspired by a tweet by trombonist Jeff Albert. His message became the first line of the poem.

Separation

The MacBook Pro’s headphone out does
not have clean stereo separation.

It cannot effectively separate the
left from                  the right.

Nor can it color-code cull the allowed from
the illegal.

Or sit at the base of the wall in the cold
desert night, waiting for what the coyotes bring.

The MacBook Pro’s headphone out sends
a steady stream of sound

straight to the bones inside your ears,
causing tiny vibrations that your

brain magnifies then translates into
language you can understand.

And yet, left                  and right
will not be properly separated. Will mix

inappropriately, causing some in the room
to murmur their disapproval.

Are you murmuring your disapproval? Casting
a sidelong glance, perhaps

catching the eye of another partygoer, who
responds with raised brow or a

cluck

of the tongue?

Tsk. Tsk. Tsk.

Can you separate
left                  from right?

Do you know where you bread is buttered?

Do you want to wash the dishes?