Tag Archives: Jeremiah Driver

“Hey Joe” – Poetry by Jeremiah Driver

Jimi Hendrix – Abdul Mati Klarwein, 1970

“Hey Joe” is one of two gritty & gunslingin’ poems by Jeremiah Driver in our Winter 2019 issue.

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to pause. Because questions
can fill the space between two people
and open anybody wider than another’s answers.
Because a truth that can be told
isn’t true. Where you goin’

with that gun in your hand? Because the first note
transforms Jimi from Jimi

who becomes a teller who is asking
Joe, who is not Jimi,
nor the person Jimi is not
the gun.

We listen because someone will die
someone will murder
because he caught her messing round with another man
but the shot is not heard. There are notes,
chords, and rhythm—blues: polyphonic shuffling

dysfunction that functions to melt people’s brains
so that the daemon can live
as long as people listen.

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JEREMIAH DRIVER earned an MFA in Writing at Sarah Lawrence College, won the Thomas Lux Award, has been a horse trainer, a service member in the United States Army, worked heavy construction in Manhattan, and taught literacy/ writing in Queens and the Bronx. He blogs at jeremiahdriver.wordpress.com. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in TerminusColumbia JournalUCity ReviewPrairie Gold: An Anthology of the American Heartland, and Piecrust.

FLAPPERHOUSE 3rd Annual Halloween Reading, In Pictures

Our eternal thanks to everyone who helped make last night’s reading such a gruesomely grand evening: Stephen, Michael, Cooper, Jeremiah, and Deirdre for performing your flappy lits; Pacific Standard for the ever-gracious hospitality; and all you marvelous individuals who spent your All Hallows’ Eve with us…

Hope we’ll see you again for our grand finale reading, sometime in the Spring…

Our fiction editor Stephen Langlois tells his bizarre story “Man Crawls Across Parking Lot”

Michael J. Seidlinger shares an excerpt from his new book MY PET SERIAL KILLER

Cooper Wilhelm performs a gripping tale of culinary weirdness

Our Poetry Consultant Jeremiah Driver reads some of his own brutal & shadowy poems

Deirdre Coyle closes the show with a sharp tale of blood & art



FLAPPERHOUSE’s 3rd Annual Halloween Reading

Join us Wednesday, October 31 from 7-9 PM at Brooklyn’s Pacific Standard as we celebrate the season of the witch with our 3rd Annual Halloween reading!








facebook event page here

“Ode to a Man Who Says Motherfucker Twice as Much as Any Motherfucker Should” – Poetry by Jeremiah Driver

Strength- Niki de Sainte Phalle, 1973
Strength- Niki de Sainte Phalle, 1973

We interrupt our regularly scheduled dark weirdness to bring you some poetry about family & love. Please enjoy “Ode to a Man Who Says Motherfucker Twice as Much as Any Motherfucker Should,” one of four heartwarming poems contributed to our Fall 2016 issue by our new Poetry Consultant, Jeremiah Driver.

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Aunt Delores lifted off your pinned body;

The contest of pulling recurve bows for poundage,
That you won annually until Bo Jackson

Pulled the measure to the arrow’s end;
And the gentle barters of broken ribs with Uncle Alex.

Blessed are the stories of folly: the man,
With short permed hair who couldn’t swim

So he walked the pond’s depth and reached the bank,
Gasping; the kitten, your wife named Lucy

Whose testicles dropped and you christened Lucille Balls;
The bell-shaped lampshade, with a pink floral pattern

That you put on your head, the fabric balls dangling –
Above your muscle shirt – as you blew the camera a kiss

With wadded lips for a picture that still makes your sister laugh;
And the lyrics to Good Night Irene that you sang, standing

Over Uncle Charlie’s drunken body after it settled on the ground.
Blessed are the raindrops that fell hard enough to drown men

Who couldn’t laugh and dripped from our noses
As we shook hands – two motherfuckers in a horse trailer.

When Grandpa said a guy would have to be queer
and have a cast iron stomach to eat pussy,

You said well then, you’ve got three queer brothers!
Bless be all our brothers.

Blessed is the elbow and fist that stopped quick,
Level with your shoulder when I told you

In the hospital parking lot, that your brother was dead.
Blessed be all the motherfuckers.

— for Great Uncle Denny

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