The Seat of All Thoughts

— for Michael

We sat on a moss-covered log
in the trash-littered overgrowth
of Skinner Butte, smoked pot,
talked philosophy and gods but

mostly about how we, ourselves
are gods, how this particular log
was “the seat of all thoughts”
from which we, in our infinite

wisdom, controlled the entirety
of the world, then you with your
wet brown eyes, your twisted
let’s fuck smile, brought up girls

and the subject shift made me
want to slit my mental wrists
when in retrospect, I could’ve
leaned in and given you a kiss.

---

Stephen Jackson lives and writes in the mystical Pacific Northwest. Other work appears in The American Journal of Poetry, FERAL: A Journal of Poetry and Art, Impossible Archetype, Stone of Madness Press, and Wine Cellar Press, as well as on the 2019 International Human Rights Art Festival Publishes platform. @fortyoddcrows