Friday, November 21, 2014

Quotes from : Jason E. Hodges

I’m not afraid to die, but I’m also not afraid to live


Writers that are pouring their soul out for the world to see will cast a perfect reflection of themselves in their work


I was just a drifter, a writer of what I saw.


My life has been a storm of change. Some I did not want, but all I have weathered.


Some live it, some wish they lived it, and some never know it’s there.


You know you’re getting somewhere as a writer when the rejection letters mean as much as spam in your inbox.


We didn’t have AC or Cable TV. We had shade trees and storytellers. This is where my writing comes from.


I write novellas, short books, whatever. I set out to write a good story not write a dictionary.


Writers live within their mind for their flesh and bones are stuck in a far worse place.


Sometimes people just can't take how real the world can be. Even if they're your friend they’ll drop away from you like petals to a dying flower to keep their own sanity. 


A poet writes what they see every day, what they know, what they’ve lived or barely lived through. 


Sometimes the rules of writing get in the way of a good story told.


A shovel is the greatest motivational teacher I know.


Sleeplessness and being a writer seem to go together hand in hand. 


If you’re not going to immerse yourself in your work as a writer then don’t write. But beware, if you’re a writer who does not write, you stand a good chance of drowning in the world that surrounds you. 


Chaos is life, if you're doing great things.


For the writer that has truly suffered, their pen, their words, their art will become as important as breathing.


Lies are served like a fine delicacy. But beware, the truth of it all will sour, lodge in your throat, and choke your very existence if you continue to believe them.


Sweat, blood, and tears mean nothing in your writing if you’re not willing to burn what doesn’t work.


Even the wolf gets anxious, but the wolf keeps moving and doing, all while being washed in the magic of moonlight.


You can be the greatest at stringing words together, but if you don’t mean what you say, your words will not live long in this world.


People who think following your dreams is a fairytale don’t realize they’re living the biggest fairytale of all, following the sheep.

These quotes are from my book : Petals Falling

Last Days

My soda can’s exterior sweats

Like a condemned man awaiting his sentence

Waiting for the guillotine to drop

It sweats

From the dry heat inside this break room

Liquid beads slid down its side

Like tears falling from an eye


It’s freezing

Just beyond the windowpanes

Squared glass framed visions of the outside

I wonder

As my break is coming to an end

And I have to

Go back to the factory’s floor

Will this be my last day?

The wind is cold outside


At least it carries hope of something different

Hope of a place

Where my bones no longer hurt

A place where they won’t wake me

In the night with the feeling of

Bending and burning beneath my skin

A place where dust no longer fills my lungs

Agitating my bad genes

My Alpha 1


Yes, doctors assured me dust would be the death of me

And here I stand working in this factory

Day after day

Trying to stay above water

While getting one step closer

To drowning in my own lung’s fluid

But for now

It’s time go back to the time clock

Until I’m ready to trust the cold wind

Just outside the window

This poem is from my book : Petals Falling

Let Me Die

I see this kid today

In the heart of the city

He says he’s eighteen

But he looks much younger

Hell, everyone looks younger now!

As we sat on the curb talking about skateboarding

I notice the words, Let Me Die

Carved into his forearm

There were also

Diagonal lines cut underneath these words

Red and puffy

The pre-infection stage

They were standing in a row

These lines

Like little toy soldiers

Ready for battle


I’m not sure if their host

Their canvas

Realizes how long of a battle it might be

I know for some of us

It seems to never end

He starts talking to another kid about cars

I sit watching the traffic light change colors

All while memories go by

Dance in my mind

Like a Jester for a king

Memories of when I was his age

Memories I’ve never forgotten

Even if I’ve tried

This poem is from my book : Petals Falling

Photos Of The Web

Photos used to capture

A time

A place

Not alter one


With the power of the internet

The power of computers

Someone’s photo is nothing more

Than an altered reality

An elusion

A mirage

Water only drinkable to the ones that are fooled

With the click of a button

All imperfections are removed





Hair color

The scars of life are gone

Leaving folks looking a lot like

Some of those TV evangelists in the 1980s

Faces plastered with makeup

Filtering what the camera would see

Plastic surgery


All done with the click of a button

So crisp

So perfect

No flaws

No truth 

This poem is from my book : Petals Falling


Lilith took a stroll and never came back

Some speculate

It was for this reason or that

I think she was just tired

Of being stuck in that garden

Where everything was perfect

So much so

No one had to think for themselves

They would never see the beauty in mistakes

In flaws  

I think, she thought

She wondered

What was just beyond

The edge of that garden

Lilith needed more than Adam could give her

She needed to see where the horizon ended

And dawn begins in the morning

Like Kerouac needed the countryside

Like W. H. Davies needed a life on the rails

Lilith had to see where the rivers flowed and disappeared in the distance

Where the moon falls into darkness

And the stars light up the night

Where thunderstorms roll over the mountains

And lightning’s jagged lines split in the sky

Where the oceans are as blue as turquoise

And canyons echo your every sound

Like a perfect orchestra  

Yes, Lilith was not made from a rib

She was made to roam

This poem is from my book : Petals Falling

Looking Around

Looking around I see


From my past

A piece of broken brick

Picked up off a dirt road I once lived on

By my child


Twenty years ago

A wilted white flower lies

Bent over backwards across its top

Like a ballerina balanced

In the hands of her partner 

A fired clay turtle

Brought back from the Bahamas as a gift

From my neighbors

For watching their house

Years have drifted by and I’ve lost track of them

Three families have come and gone over there

And now the bank owns it

Cobwebs in the window and stringy grass in the driveway

Frogs have taken over the green-tinted water of the pool

But the clay turtle still stands guard on my mantle

My old jeweler’s saw hangs in the corner

The engagements I cut through with its jagged teeth

Sealed by god but cut by me

Sized for another couple’s hands

Another couple’s hopes of making it longer than six months

A twenty-five cent figurine of a bear

Stands with a blank expression 

My baby shoes sit beside it

Given to me by my mother

They were once a keepsake for her

But now she’s given them to me

She’s given a lot of things away these last few years

Experts would say she’s in the last quarter of her life

I think after seven kids

She has too many damn knickknacks to dust and keep up with

One day

I might feel the same

But for now

I’ll keep looking around

This poem is from my book : Petals Falling


He took a ride with Coe

Jackson heard his voice blowing in the wind

Both happened on the dark roadways of Montgomery

But I don’t believe this is the only place you can see him

For Hank

Is more a feeling of defying the wrongness of the world that surrounds us

As much as when it surrounded him 

Yeah, you’re more likely to see him

On the mud soaked streets of Montgomery

Leaned up against

The crumbling brick buildings of that city

Waiting for the fog to fall from the night

But really he’s everywhere

If you just take the time to look

Look close within the depths of your soul

You know


Where most are too fearful to go

You will start to see him

More and more

Yes, Hank is in spirit

But wasn’t he always living his life

On the edge of existence

All while knocking on Death’s Door

So the next time you have warm whiskey flowing

Like fire through the center of your heart

Listen for the train wailing in the distance

Look close as the boxcars

Lazily lumber past you down that two-rail track

Look, look inside and he will be there

Playing his guitar

Singing the blues for the ones that are down

Pushed down by the world

Yes, the ghost of Hank Williams still tilts his hat

To the ladies of the south working all night at the diner

So their families will stay afloat

He’s there with his middle finger pointed upwards

When the boss puts you down

To make himself feel like god

He’s there when the bottle runs dry 

And the last cigarette is smoked for the night

When the whippoorwill throws its calls

Through the dark tree shadows of the pines

Yes, Hank is right there beside you

When you embody the spirit of rebellion

And stand up for the less among us

Hank is right there beside you

This poem is from my book : Petals Falling

Harvesting Bones

“Harvesting bones is a good job!”

At least I’m told this by a lady in the break room

She wears Docs or something close

And has a ring in each side of her nose


I asked her if she was into punk rock

She said, “No, I’m into nature.”

I liked her answer

It was the most punk thing she could have said

I thanked her for the job info

Then made my way back to the time clock

As I worked, I thought

Anywhere would be better than here

Or would it?

Plenty haunts me in my sleep

Without adding to it


Harvesting bones from the dead

Pulling bones from body parts

Does not sound appealing


The fear of stepping away from the familiar

Is worse than the first step away

Ten minutes into my shift

I’m ready to pluck bones

This poem is from my book : Petals Falling

His Feet

I gave my shoes to a homeless man

The other day

For I knew

I had another pair at home


He had no home

What covered his feet

Were not fit for wearing

Much less walking

I’ve seen the look in his eyes before

I understood his gaze

More than most ever will


The gaze of the hungry

Cuts through

All the red tape of humanity

Of the presentation from the presenters

That all is perfect in this world


All is not perfect

But if we help the ones less fortunate

Things will get better

We are all burning stars shackled to this place

At least

For the moment

So make the most and help another


We won’t be shackled forever

We will be burning bright someday

In the sky above

This poem is from my book : Petals Falling

Uncomfortable Smile

I see the young men and women

Coming back from the war

They all have that uncomfortable smile

My uncle had it

Korea gave him his

The war somehow froze his face

Gave his eyes a sometimes lost stare

An old friend of mine took a bayonet in the stomach

He was also shot in the back

Vietnam froze his face, as well

He said, they used to place an Ace of Spades

In the front pocket of the men they killed

He said, the ace symbol meant death in their world

He said a lot of things

But talking about it didn’t unfreeze his face

They come back, but they’re forever changed

What innocence is left from their childhood

Is gone

Never to return

For the bullet

The bomb

The tank

The grenade

All of these things have burned it away

Like a fire to a plush landscape

War has torched all that they were

And given them that uncomfortable smile

This poem is from my book : Petals Falling

Fence Lines

The old rusted fence lines look like dredge nets

At the edge of the sea

Yet, this is a sea of green rolling grass blowing lightly in the breeze

But this green is fading fast

Fading away

Are these farm fields of my childhood

The plow points have all been gathered up for scrap

I can’t blame the ones scrapping iron for a little cash

Anything to feed your family during this recession

Sometimes things have to be done

Even gathering up the last markings of my homeland

A way of life that will soon be no more

Builders backed by bankers borrow money

Then buy up

The last of the Florida farms and straight yellow pines

Faster than I want to see

To witness

To behold

Memories of endless summers

Chasing fireflies and eating the hearts of watermelons

Where they lay in the field

These days from my past are now being covered up

By asphalt

By cement

By cars speeding home to do nothing

But sit in front of a box of programmed entertainment

All in the name of progress

This poem is from my book : Petals Falling

Day Ward Cut-Art

The sign reads hanging on the wall, Me on a great day

Cut art

Cut photos from magazines

Glued carefully on cardboard




Rock stars





Cut words like Staying strong



Fourth of July treats

All of these things Bring

Some type of normalcy to the ones stuck inside this place

Hope for the hopeless

For you see

Shadows dance with madness in the mad house

While the monkey’s boney hand clings to the user’s back

We all have a dependence

A crutch to make it through

What’s yours?


Are you not ready for the day ward yet?

The rehab waiting room?

Where sweat covered bodies are handed coloring books

And told

This will help occupy your time

This poem is from my book : Petals Falling