Jason Fraley works at an investment firm in West Virginia to support
his poetry habit and his wife's pursuit of a doctorate in English.
Hundreds of Pez dispensers line his living room, though he is more
paranoid about his cat stalking his every movement.  Occasionally, he
feels like boring himself to tears and attends his MBA classes.

Aside from publications in Redactions, Confluence, Words on Walls,
Pebble Lake Review, Stirring, and The Salt River Review, Jason is
active in the online poetry community, participating in several poetry
communities.  Although it may seem implausible, he does have time to
write and revise his own poetry.

When not reading his own poetry incessantly, Jason enjoys Denver
Quarterly, The Canary, Colorado Review, Barrow Street, and jubilat.
He wishes G.C. Waldrep, Arielle Greenberg, Killarney Clark, and
Timothy Liu would send their work directly to his home address rather
than worrying about the whole "publication" process.

He has plenty of time to talk about himself (if you can't tell already).
Feel free to email him at jfraley@mail.com.

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- On Nihilism -

Take water as an example.

I imagine the earth’s resistance to the first thunderstorm,
how mouths began to overflow.

You recall its coolness on your throat,
how blisters receded to make words possible.

So which description is it?

Look at me when you have the answer.

I’ll appear expressionless before glancing away. 

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- Seduction In Anytown USA -

Tectonic plates will not shift the city elsewhere.
People will wake to rooms darkened green, to a sun
only half-lit once it passes through leaves.

A widow, born into her situation unprepared,
watches the wind in one of its rare dizzy spells,
when it lifts branches and aluminum cans.
She still desires something more to fill her body.

A man steps from the shower, and his skin dries white.
Downstairs, broken dolls on carpet fresh with plastic scent.
Is there a religion that describes afterlife in terms of reassembly?

Downtown, a comedian does not laugh until he interacts
with the audience.  He cannot possess the language
of others.  Offstage, he wonders if married couples
realize this before falling asleep each night. 

 

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- Recurring Evening -

What I expect:  a separate organ does not replace
the sun.  A woman slumps over her coffee on the back porch,
does not force the swing skyward. 
I keep quiet in case night is a canvas of crows
continuing to circle and survey – earth
refused so darkness reciprocates itself. 
How can I draw a world from memory
that was never fully born before my eyes?
Inside, a porcelain vase does not contain
the moon or ashes of strangers –
an empty container, the shape of coveting.

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- Braille -

the heater:  orange rises in coils:  charred sunrise of burning dust:

cracked caulk on the windowsill:  skin like layers of overcast

that insulate chill:  your robe worn thin:  the saturated towel:

your constricting throat:  an empty medicine cabinet:

your body arched over the sink:  porcelain grip:  ribs pressed visible

on your back:  grooves as reservoirs: balls of spine: 

the body’s wrinkled language: fingers long numb:

 

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- The Architect, Who has Fallen in Love with Modernism,
Delivers a Mysteriously Short Dedication Speech -

 

I was hired to shape the shapeless, 

to design suburbs of square neighborhoods.

Those living on corners have already signed a contract

stipulating they can have sex in positions

where one body is perpendicular to the other. 

Thus, I have given you a constant reminder. 

Everyone has a porch swing, which you must watch

during windstorms:  chains govern a circuit

never quite completed. Likewise, a screen door:

if it could pass through hinges and walls. 

I lined the route leading out of town with oak trees

to preserve straightness. On clear days, the horizon

bends so pavement may complete its arc.