Jay Towne is a writer of various things, from Amsterdam, NY. 
From “A Blind Reason” - A collection.

i attacks my syntax
and shove it down the stairs
i disown my pronoun
and leave it unawares
i disembowel my only vowel
proposition my preposition
act perverse despite my verse
portray my rage upon my page
with sayings terse and worse
get tense with tense and
savor the experience
my profession, my expression, my digression

i gave you a doughnut
and you let it sit on
the hard, cold table
still in the bag
until i finally put it away
in the fridge
where you swore you’d eat it
for breakfast
but i am going to get up
twenty minutes early
and steal it back
and eat it on the porch

you say you want
truth in the inward parts but
you are a liar
you say you  want fidelity in your flesh but
you betray yourself all day on every occasion
you say you want love to rule your heart but
you twist and turn  away from my face
whenever it suits you
you say forgive me for being human and
i say i created you to be perfect and not need
so what do you say?


the feel of your head on my chest
the weight of your soul
touching mine, breathing, moving
we are mated together
by our tense, excited love of life
the purity of your smile
echoes from your will
and it’s laughter
and my love for you grows every single day
how can it be
when you are not here?
when you are not real?
when you don’t talk back to me?

cardinal alights on wicker chair
red as day and unashamed
turns his head
this way and that 
measures me for bread
and finding none
darts away

she didn’t ask for anything
she didn’t whine or cry
or ask where god was
or why her
i didn’t press her on it
i merely held her hand
and cried to myself
the last thing she said 
to me was what is happening
and then goodbye
and she was gone
gone- all the suffering
gone- the reliance on others
gone- the best person in my life

the capacity to love is universal
so is the capacity to denigrate-

a perfect theft of flowers

it must have been thirty acres or more
crisscrossed with access roads
some paved, some grass
marble and granite markers
denote last repose
terwilliger saltsman small frenz
all along the trails
pre-civil war stones
laid flat in a pattern, bleached white
and gilded with a dark green moss
a mausoleum in the corner
granite with white columns
a white flower stuck in the rusty gate
she found the hydrangea bush
took out her hidden scissors
cut off a bunch and stuck them
in her canvas bag
nobody comes here except
to weed the stones, she said
these are going to a better place
on the way home i kept my eyes peeled
for cops

not  a rattle falls to the ground
that he doesn't see
not a circle drawn
that he doesn't inhabit
the wind is his the rain
the snow
the cattle on a thousand hills
as well
if he needed anything
he wouldn't tell us
except to beg for attention
or stumble on a metaphor
he is one and transcends time
he is the essence and the shade 
pomp and parade
ageless and hoping we see him
in the waves of the ocean
the peck on the cheek
or the call of a mated bird