Feature poet: J Ian Bush

Good afternoon and happy Friday! Today’s feature is J Ian Bush, a talented poet from Ohio who has multiple books released. Check out two of his pieces below.

A Horrible Sound Played at an Incredibly Slow Speed

And once after we fucked

we found ourselves suddenly transfigured.

Our bodies were that of human sized slugs. Freshly salted.

Horrified. And as our bodies hissed we didn’t have mouths to scream with. And there wouldn’t have been any point to. Anyway. We looked at each other. Directly. In what was left of our eyes.

And we knew we’d never be the same. Again.

We knew we’d never survive this.

Each other. And our bodies.

And the hiss.

And if we would have still had mouths we’d have used them to kiss and to sing new lullabies back and forth.

Not to say Goodbye. Not to scream.

There was no point to that.

Just in surrender. And the sound

of that. Surrender.

One of The Seven Stages of Grief

Your father is dying. Your father is dying. Is dying. Is. Dying. Is dead. Your father is dead. Your father is dead and there’s a body to see. There’s anger. There’s decisions to be made. There’s a funeral Tuesday you’ll be banned from. There’s anger. There’s confusion. There’s a $3000 down payment. There’s a funeral Tuesday and decisions to be made. He will be cremated. Which is to say he’s been burned to the best of the oven’s ability. He’s being kept in a freezer in a basement. There’s anger and a $3000 down payment. There’s a funeral Tuesday you can’t pay for. There’s your father a body in a freezer. You’ll have to have him embalmed if you want to have a viewing. You’ll rent a casket. Pretend you can afford to have him buried. Which is to say fed to worms. There’s a body being kept like lunch meat. There’s a $3000 down payment. He’s going to be embalmed. Which is to say he’ll taxidermied. Like a deer full of buckshot. Marbles for eye and organs of cotton balls. A smile propped up with chicken wire and tooth pick. As if ready to be mounted on the living room wall. `​Your father is dead and there’s anger. There’s anger. There’s a funeral director. There’s things not done. There’s things done wrong. There’s a body. There’s a heated argument. Two days of it. Back and forth. There’s screaming over the phone. There’s threats to call the cops. There’s a funeral Tuesday you’re banned from.

Your father is dead and you are banned from his funeral. Your father is dead. You are banned from his funeral. Your father is dead. You are banned from his funeral. Your father is dead. Your father is dead. Your father is dead. Your father is dead and you banned from his funeral. There’s anger. There are things unsaid. There are unsayable things. There are unsayable things unsaid. There’s a body embalmed in a freezer that can’t hear them. There is your father dead and unable to speak. There’s a funeral. There’s anger. There’s anger. There’s anger. There is anger. There is always anger. There is always anger. There is always going to be anger. There is always going to be anger. There is always going to be anger. There are unsayable things that will always be unsaid and always there will be anger and always there is something under the anger. There’s always something under the anger. There’s always something under the anger. There’s always something under the anger. There’s always something under the anger. There’s always something. There’s always something. Always something. Always something. Always.

J.I.B. is a poet from Southern Ohio, in the foothills of Appalachia. His work has been published in various midwest journals and presses, and his the author of two volumes of poetry, most recently AMERICAN TELEVISION (Spartan Press 2024).