Well shoot why not I guess.  I have a few pieces to share.  I haven’t written in a while (I feel like that is the customary go to line when sharing poetry that may or may not fit the bill) It isn’t that I am unsure of my writing ability, to the contrary most every time i penned something, I have been satisfied.  Just that within six months of me writing it, I would be less enthusiastic about it.  All the new stuff is sheer brilliance I tell you and all my old stuff is crap.  thing is I don’t have much in the new stuff category  but a great deal of the old.  I picked a few that I can live with.  I never was a practitioner of the abstract removed form of poetry so my personality comes across loud and clear.  Also I don’t have titles for any of my work, it never felt right for me or my work.  Another thing, I use the pen name Carrjack (my last name is Carr and Ian is the Scottish Gaelic form of John, which Jack is a common nickname) Sent them in the body of the email if that’s alright with you.

-Ian Carr, New York, NY
Archaeologist (Dig Supervisor, Scotland, Summer 2011)

———————————————————————————————————-

We left New York
in search of an idea
ever fleeting
and a need to come to terms
with you America

Rolling hills
and a curving road
our path
is unknown
beyond the next bend

Drive through the night
taking turns behind the wheel
The poets and
drifters strewn
across the back seat.

A half tank
and cigarettes to burn
You lay yourself out
head in my lap
feet on the dash

Windows open
the cool night sky
passing small valley towns
distant street lamps
and slumbering homes

this highway was once
an indian trail

switch it up
my eyes are sagging
Semis barreling past
trying for a good time

in my youth
my father spoke
of roads like rivers

Take you clear across this land
without so much as a stop sign
before emptying out
into the pacific

——————————————————————————————————-

Dine
   Parked Cars

Sleep
    in your
Jeans.

Grin
At the
Rising Sun.

Always
Drink It
   Black.

Smoke Em
 if ya Got Em

While Pondering the Meaning
               of it all.

———————————————————————————————————

Our Place
was on the third floor
on top of a hill.
Our Eagles Nest.
A sanctuary from
the grime.
We would
sit there
Listen to the
screams and bottles
break.

Could see the
flashing lights
on the wall
from those
trying
to keep the peace.

We watched as
the cretins crept
up the hill.

The shit
had been
1 block west.
but towards the end
it was 1 block east.

We were
surrounded
on all sides.

Pour another drink.

And whatever you do,
never
lock the door.
They’ll just bust
a window to find
we haven’t
got shit
and god knows
we don’t have money
for that.

So pour it to the brim.

and spare us both the pleasantries.

—————————————————————————


Keep it simple
Don’t overthink it
You have
A mattress
A pile of books
some bought
the rest stolen
A closet of wrinkled clothes
that conveniently
fits into your grandpas
WW II navy duffel bag
A metrocard with 50 cents on it
No job
No food
No woman
No booze
No credit
A growing debt
One year left on
that BA
2 close friends
A shrinking waistline
A manuscript of sorts
or rather
a collection of ramblings and
musings
scattered across
scraps of paper
and diner napkins
With 29 years under your belt
and no end in sight.