james o

@jamesolearypoet

James O'Leary / was Willow James Claire for a while / Poet Writer Reviewer / they / Assistant Poetry Editor for Anomaly / AZ / free palestine 🇵🇸

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james o@jamesolearypoet· 29d

“I won’t scatter myself on the sidewalk tonight” Taylor Byas

Rooftop Monologue
Listen,
mara view. Watch, i my own creation, i scatter myself on t)
When I'm not thinking of dying, I like to play God. Look; from this angle, the world folds
inward like a Monopoly game board, and those people below are more than just ants
to crush in the pretend-pinch
of my index finger and thumb. See the top hat and thimble, the boats and silver dogs backsliding along the sidewalks? I wore my old
Converse today. The soles unstitching from the canvas, the beginnings of lips
around my toes. Enough flex
in the soles to cuddle the roof's ledge the way
the other woman might hold a man after a fight with his wife. I don't want to jump,
only to be reminded of how thin the line between breathing and falling. How fragile a crossing.
With the sun setting like that, it looks like you could hike uphill right into heaven, these skyscrapers
steps for the giant. And the sky like hand-pulled cotton candy, sifting into ropes of rose

and gold, stretching and re-stretching itself into mouthfuls. Listen, I told you I don't want to jump,

but what a view. Watch, the sky is hemorrhaging twilight-my own creation, too beautiful to ruin.

I won't scatter myself on the sidewalk tonight.

james o@jamesolearypoet· Jul 17

the last two months have been really difficult as we struggle through a housing situation, I have been distracting myself with chess and hit my yearly goal today which is cool

an image of my account on the chess.com rapid time control's rating distribution curve, showing I am rated 2258 and in the 99.9 percentile; in 72 million active players I am in the top 12 thousand. Which is pretty cool if I do say so myself :)

james o@jamesolearypoet· Jul 13

the rage in this duplex by Taylor Byas, from I Done Clicked My Heels Three Times ( @taylorbyas.bsky.social )

The Early Teachings

The Catholic school says, Cover your shoulders because the boys may be tempted by your
flesh.

Because the boys may be tempted by your flesh, your safety is your responsibility.

Your safety is your responsibility at the party you didn't want to go to.

At the party you didn't want to go to, a white tablet dissolves into your drink.

A white tablet dissolves into your drink and no one believes that you told him no.

And no one believes that you told him no— it's your responsibility, remember?

It's your responsibility. Remember,
the Catholic school says, Cover your shoulders.

james o@jamesolearypoet· Jul 1

“yet there must be // a way to cry goodbye aloud to leave you /these inadequate thanks” The final poem from C. K. Williams’ final book, Falling Ill

I want to wish you goodbye but don't dare
essential it is to wish you goodbye farewell thank you acknowledge how you devised

a life for me I never imagined I'd have
but saying goodbye can seem a diminishing
a subtraction something that must never

be thought though it already has been
and will be again but never allowed to reach
the lips to pass into the realm of language

or come too clearly even into the mind
the mind so sadly vulnerable with its capacity for contradicting itself yet there must be

a way to cry goodbye aloud to leave you
these inadequate thanks without resorting
to rending farewell oh dear heart farewell

james o@jamesolearypoet· Jun 25

is there a fury equal to the robe of illness —C. K. Williams

Rage

Long time since rage groundless anger
engulfed me for no nameable reason with
no apparent actual cause but itself its own

frustration fury that makes me want to destroy
no matter what to assuage the anger
I feel towards my affliction and if I don’t act

on it now some great part of my world
will forever be h satisfied unconsummated
though what can that possibly imply

is there a further equal to the robe of illness
that encases me as though in an embrace
composed itself of raging resentment

and hastened by still being able to contain
enough of me in itself to crush me
and dissolve me in my own wrath

james o@jamesolearypoet· Jun 13

my neighbors have weird dogs

a picture of two javelina munching on apartment complex grass

james o@jamesolearypoet· Jun 7

Adam Clay ( @adamclay.bsky.social ) in the Bennington Review "I say all of this so I'll remember it"

james o@jamesolearypoet· Jun 2

@shopoetryjournal.bsky.social was kind enough to ask me to include my poem, "In the Dark, The Arms Look Like Crosses" in their Pride playlist! ♥️💜💙

a colorful graphic displaying many writers' author pictures for Sho's Pride Playlist 2026. they are all handsome, beautiful, splendiferous gay people

james o@jamesolearypoet· May 16

“I want to move through the trees as you do: four palms flush to the earth, dark river with two wild torches” Kinsale Drake ( @kinsaledrake.bsky.social )

an image of the poem, “song for the black cat outside my mother’s apartment”

—

We know what it is to not be wanted,
when our bodies are taboo.

Night limbs, how our eyes
swallow everything.

When I was brought into the world,
I looked back.

The trees were heavy with dark.
They say a wicked woman walks

bad luck. What makes a wicked woman?
Irises green with want, barbed tongues

to catch what’s coming.
I want to move through the trees

as you do: four palms flush to the earth,
dark river with two wild torches

in a corner: living shadow, the same color
as forgetting.

How many lives
can I hold on each chamber

of my heart?

james o@jamesolearypoet· Apr 28

picked up a box slightly wrong and immediately felt so much pain I saw stars

an image from what looks like a pokémon game. a balding greying man is in a dialogue box witht the text “I’m 30 years old”

james o@jamesolearypoet· Apr 27

I loved reading this poem by @rozalijagrace.com , its un- and re-winding, its tenderness in call and response:

Saint Sebastian Tended by
Saint Irene
Rozalija Grace
For Elizabeth Rose Sha!er
Your fingers wrap fletching of my hair. Pull. I fly
from post to earth, bent like a bow to be strung,
meagre cloth loosed from impassioned body.
In your hands, what distinction remains
to bond and free, arrow and bow,
nakedness and innocence?
You have heard it said a
bow is a stick nine-
tenths broken, but
my wounds are
undressed.
This
is it—
the body
of glory for
the resurrection,
all dripping sides and
surrender. Thrust your hands in,
wet with life. Pull me under when
I gasp at the kingdom’s rise. You have
heard there will be no flood, but I say that,
at the throne’s height, every rainbow’s a circle,
and that every saint is ten-tenths broken with love.

james o@jamesolearypoet· Apr 26

did this prompt first thing in the morning and really enjoyed it, here is my sad little found poem from a page out of Iris Murdoch

a copy of a page from Iris Murdoch’s The Sea, The Sea, marked up with sharpie to reveal the following poem:

I receded
until the visible
depression bathed
in the night
I composed myself
so close to
being
I could lie
looking straight
making an almost but not quite
sharp and bright
life
waste,
as if the spirit
might come home
might love
the temptation of
unhappiness

james o@jamesolearypoet· Apr 23

I'm realizing here how much my of my poetry is in love with the little creatures, whether directly or indirectly. even this sonnet (from a sequence in Kenyon) came about because of the image in lines 2-3 of a spiderweb inspired the language, opened a door

ii.

It’s spring & I’m ill with what killed my uncle last year.
Falling flower petals & pollen have painted gold
the spiderwebs nested around my car’s side mirror.
I syringe nettle tea onto my face like tears; I soup
myself silly. I break down buying mineral water, feeling
for the first time what it means to take what pours free.
I pour out the fee. What the fuck is an electrolyte anyway.
He used to sit for hours, listen to conspiratorial pundits
convince him into his own death. No trans nephew,
no veteran’s vaccine. It’s spring & my sweat strings
with my wife’s to make a wet stitch where our bodies
typically lie. Intimacy now, with nowhere else to hide.

Ill with gold, I sing my face to buy feeling. What pours
free pundits death, a wet stitch. Here, bodies lie hidden.

james o@jamesolearypoet· Apr 23

While it is true I haven’t published anything in a while, let me assure you all my editor is hard at work on the recent material

Alphonse, god’s most perfect creature, is a black and white cat laying on a black chair. he lays in a spiral shape with one paw covering half his face. His nose and mouth are incredibly pink and one fang is sticking out of his mouth. He is sleepy deeply

james o@jamesolearypoet· Apr 20

"Birds sing. I inch closer to the sky, then retreat. I'm curious who's behind me. I don't turn around." Nicole Arocho Hernández

colonization will end—

Tempe, AZ

Virtual therapy session just ended. I look around. Neighborhood park flooded after yesterday’s downpour. Perfectly thick, green canopy, cool spring breeze protect me from worsening temperature. How does generational trauma affect you? I move from bench to swing. Seven adults play volleyball. Three others practice tricks in the skatepark. Middle-aged white man reads on a pavilion. A few men wearing neon vests and furrowed brows have a conversation. I swing back and forth into growing parabolas. Birds sing. I inch closer to sky, then retreat. I’m curious who’s behind me. I don’t turn around. Give me a specific example. Swing’s rusting metal makes a loud, cacophonous sound. My trajectory, defined by rules of physics, does not comfort me. Is everybody else roaming like this, too? A parent tries to activate water park but fails. Dog barks. Somewhere between failure and sound, I slowly fade. Movement of weightless time carries me through tunnel devoid of meaning. I question who I am and who I will become. Perfectly thick, white clouds look in disbelief. Do I seem like an echo refusing to end its parasitic existence? Without gravity’s pull, teeth fall, nails curl inward, eyelashes tether to a starless night. Crossing through geographies of despair, a shrieking hum. Choir of tender, coarse laments vibrates in my organs. Strangely familiar turbulent sky in my ribs. Storm pushing its way into my tongue. I inhale, viciously, the ripples of my mouth, porous dimension bending into quagmire. Crawling to surface I return, mercilessly true. Cruel midday sun. My hair sticking, streams of ancient emotions pooling in my collarbone. I stop swinging. I hear every cell fighting stillness’ momentum. I recall something alive. A baby cries, then laughs.

james o@jamesolearypoet· Apr 18

I've been very slowly reading Iris Murdoch's The Sea, The Sea, and oh my god this paragraph

Later I knew that I had been asleep and I opened my eyes with wonder and the sky had utterly changed again and was no longer dark but bright, golden, gold-dust golden, as if curtain after curtain had been removed behind the stars I had seen before, and now

I was looking into the vast interior of the universe, as if the universe were quietly turning itself inside out. Stars behind stars and stars behind stars behind stars until there was nothing between them, nothing beyond them, but dusty dim gold of stars and no space and no light but stars. The moon was gone. The water lapped higher, nearer, touching the rock so lightly it was audible only as a kind of vibration. The sea had fallen dark, in submission to the stars. And the stars seemed to move as if one could see the rotation of the heavens as a kind of vast crepitation, only now there were no more vents, no shooting stars, no falling stars, which human senses could grasp or even conceive of. All was movement, all was change, and somehow this was visible and yet unimaginable. And I was no longer I but something pinned down as an atom, an atom of an atom, a necessary captive spectator, a tiny mirror into which it was all indifferently beamed, as it motionlessly seethed and boiled, gold behind gold behind gold.

james o@jamesolearypoet· Apr 17

Ohhhh, this short poem by Elena Zhang ( @ezhang77.bsky.social ) in Passages North

Longevity

The crane bends over backwards trying to see the star in my brain. I didn’t put it there. It was the aliens. There was no more room in the sky for a white dwarf, but my skull was empty and vast. Now I am dense and decaying. I try to tell this to the crane, but it has already exploded, feathers raining everywhere.

james o@jamesolearypoet· Apr 12

how it feels to translate an old sonnet, trying to navigate the constant conflict of staying attentive to meter/rhyme vs. maintaining the poem's original meaning and style

Barbie from the newest live action Barbie movie, sitting down in an all-pink outfit with her hands in the air and a crying-frustrated-perplexed look on her face

james o@jamesolearypoet· Apr 9

I have loved spending time in the museum of queerness and disability access of Rob Macaisa Colgate’s Hardly Creatures. Here is the final poem:

Bench

(an access image of a stick figure walking)

Eli Tidies Up

And when you have rinsed my spoon for the last time
I hope you feel you have earned your rest
though you always say rest is not something that must be earned
for me I hope you make one more exception

james o@jamesolearypoet· Apr 4

"This isn't the end. It simply / cannot be the end. It is a road." C. D. Wright

Morning Star
by C. D. Wright

This isn’t the end. It simply
cannot be the end. It is a road.
You go ahead coatless, light-
soaked, more rutilant than
the road. The soles of your shoes
sparkle. You walk softly
as you move further inside
your subject. It is a living
season. The trees are anxious
to be included. The car with fins
beams through countless
oncoming points of rage and need.
The sloughed-off cells
under our bed form little hills
of dead matter. If the most sidereal
drink is pain, the most soothing
clock is music. A poetry
of shine could come of this.
It will be predominately
green. You will be allowed
to color in as much as you want
for green is good
for the teeth and the eyes.

james o@jamesolearypoet· Apr 3

"Change / is scenic and sudden. // One year, I came home / and all the leaves fell off my father." Hua Xi ( @huaxi.bsky.social )

A Bookshelf
by Hua Xi

My father read a mountain aloud.

Opened to a page
where a green bird lands on a thunderclap.

Named for the billowing hands of
brittle blue flowers.

As if the unfinished poetry of the paraffin

is pulled aside like scenery,
so that I may write by the only light I know.

My father read only his one life and recited
the last line over and over.

The book is written in giant letters of fog
that wander like goats across the alpine pastures.

The moon is dog-eared as if the treetops looking up
have studied the idea of love too much.

On a page with some scattered pine needles,
a voice goes on calling out to me.

My father learned to read
in a one-room schoolhouse,

and never read a poem.

A little herd of lightning
gets spoken out loud in the dark.

Change
is scenic and sudden.

One year, I came home
and all the leaves fell off my father.

After that,
he was winter.

james o@jamesolearypoet· Apr 2

"I don't want to be a person / but there isn't a choice," Joshua Jennifer Espinoza ( @sadqueer4life.bsky.social )

It Is Important To Be Something

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Joshua Jennifer Espinoza

This is like a life. This is lifelike.
I climb inside a mistake
and remake myself in the shape
of a better mistake—
a nice pair of glasses
without any lenses,
shoes that don’t quite fit,
a chest that always hurts.
There is a checklist of things
you need to do to be a person.
I don’t want to be a person
but there isn’t a choice,
so I work my way down and
kiss the feet.
I work my way up and lick
the knee.
I give you my skull
to do with whatever you please.
You grow flowers from my head
and trim them too short.
I paint my nails nice and pretty
and who cares. Who gives a shit.
I’m trying not to give a shit
but it doesn’t fit well on me.
I wear my clothes. I wear my body.
I walk out in the grass and turn red
at the sight of everything.

james o@jamesolearypoet· Mar 30

“you unwelcome god, at the / zenith of my pleasure, you are there.” Ally Ang @theoceanisgay.bsky.social

At the apex of night, limbs splayed across the too-small
bed, I allow my hands to wander towards the heat of my
cunt, desire sharp and pulsing. Beneath the shawl of
darkness, I shape my flesh like a block of clay, all its
excess overflowing onto the sheets. The smooth
flat landscape of my chest ballooning with breath, teeth
grinding like derelict machinery. In the slick heat of
here, I become my self: an embodiment of purest
instinct. The scent of my want intoxicating enough to
justify its undoing. Before I even knew my body, I
knew its catalogue of disgrace: the insatiable blood-
lust, the propensity for leakage. O shame,
my familiar shadow, undress me with your
needy mouth, your gnarled fingers. I am
open and waiting for you to make a
private spectacle of me. Do you hear it, the
quickening of my heart? The volatile
rhythm of unrepentant rapture, my insides
spilling onto the carpet like a pool of mercury.
Tired of all these selfish lovers, I
undulate my hips under my
voracious hand, wet and shining
with want, unfurling like a
xeranthemum inside me. O shame,
you unwelcome god, at the
zenith of my pleasure, you are there.

james o@jamesolearypoet· Mar 22

this poem by Pádraig Ó Tuama just wounds my heart

Confession

My son told me he googled
/Am I having a breakdown?/
the other day.

Why did you do that? I asked.
Because I’m in pain, he answered.

No, I said. why did you ask the computer?
Why didn’t you come to me?

He said he knew I’d say that.

I said I’m glad he knew it.
He said he’s not. I almost said
he was acting like a fool,
but I saw his face.

What did Google say, love? I asked.

james o@jamesolearypoet· Feb 20

I have a poem online in the new edition of Gulf Coast ✨

There are many ways to leave and not all of them involve disappearing into yourself. Some are easy as (_____). Say it: flight. (_____), etymology archery, the passage of days, tail of a dart, a selection of premier whiskeys arrayed in a neat line of honeyed glass. In every word I see a pair of wings. In every wing I’m frotting language, my bare thighs ink-shadow against the blank page. I have left home every time I’ve come close to making one. What happens to the (_____) when I admit I sexualize myself to say what’s impossible? What’s impossible. It isn’t a question. It isn’t a compass, no road-map that only points to my knuckle hair, my muffin top, my gapped front teeth. I hold (____) in my mouth like a too-big bite of stale yogurt; (_____) in my hands, a fishing rod in a bucket where I pull out star after star after star. Everyone gets to live in this poem, even the faggots. I am tired of being coy. I am tired of being. What words do I need, to live; what shape of language, knitted or hammered or left on a nude branch, my mouth cupping dove eggs, children left to the pity of wind. My lips tankard my hands. My hands mugging (_____). When I pathetic fallacy, I mean it: the clouds are a thousand blemishes on the eating-disorder sky; the willow trees branches rise up to blanket (_____), some poetic fool sleeping beneath the thousand unformed violins strung with summer leaves. These nascent, nadir days, these bright apocalypse days, my relationship to hope the same as a soccer mom’s to her minivan’s brake pads. Again, I’ve made a home. Again, I’m bilingual in almost. Next time, wink on my nose tip, constellations bubbling my cheeks, I want to be anything: your moon, your sun, your daughter. (_____) means as you read this, I’m gone again, alive forever. I’ll survive either way. I’m knocking on your door.

a white queer person in glasses with long brown hair. they're wearing a blue denim shirt and standing in front of foliage with red flowers. their face is smiling, turned toward the sun, and a blue, yellow, and green lorikeet is perched on their shoulder facing the camera

james o@jamesolearypoet· Jan 17

Forgot to post this: one of my favorite sonnets was recently reprinted in the blog for @fifthwheelpress.bsky.social 🦋

Papilio Polyxenes; Or Second Attempt at Metamorphosis

With a refrain from Adam Neely

My tongue tolls in the bronze of my mouth. I want you
to suck sound out of the soft of my inner thigh. My shell.
Pain feels good. Should I admit myself in the night?
I submit myself in the night. I grow a tail
& swallow it before sunrise. Repetition legitimizes.
I grow a tail & swallow it before sunrise. Bones thicken
my throat. I tremble in pain & it sounds like a song,
my music a mimicry: repetition legitimizes. I want you
to change with me, under covers which crinkle like leaves.
Stare long enough at my razor burn, & skin reveals
eyes; this is a defense mechanism to avoid contact.
This is a defense mechanism: to avoid contact,
I change. When I put my clothes on, I want you to take me.
When I take my clothes off, I want you to give me back

james o@jamesolearypoet· Jan 6

I am fortunate to have a poem in the new (and amazing!) issue of @shopoetryjournal.bsky.social 🌵

an image of this following poem on paper:

In the Dark, The Arms Look Like Crosses

All night long they sling the fireman’s axes in sideways
arcs to chop the saguaro down, the two boys
who’d dared each other to do it. They sweat & drink light
beer swiped from a parent’s pantry and
their pale skin shines like tossed aside bottle caps
beneath the moon. They kiss. They were dared
to do it. They cut. Like green flesh, the cactus
oozes slick juice, the sound of the long-trapped
rain released in a whisper. The wren holes whistle
the night wind, the wrens themselves now ghosts.
After, when the deed is done, one of the boys hangs
his axe in the garage and goes to bed. The other
says his name slowly under his breath: James, James.
Saint James, Saint James, Saint James.
This night will last forever, and he thanks God
it must be so. This night will last forever.
She won’t remember until she’s old.

james o@jamesolearypoet· Dec 21

purple mountains, peach mountains

an image of sonoran mountains. a sunset is descending over them, a gradient of purple to peachy orange. various cacti and desert life can be seen in the foreground

james o@jamesolearypoet· Nov 24

this picture doesn’t really do justice to how beautiful the desert has been during the rains the last few days

an image of a Sonoran desert valley at sunset. bright orange, red, and vermillion lines of light outline purple clouds. Jesus Christ the natural world is so beautiful

james o@jamesolearypoet· Nov 3

really loving Kim Addonizio’s Now We’re Getting Somewhere