*First Published in Defunct Magazine*

Would you believe the world ends and starts in Jim Morrison’s motel room
in West Hollywood

I won’t say again that staring at the stars is like staring
into the past       because it’s overstated

                                                                               but also

           it’s one of those stunning things

        I’m furious I didn’t say first

                                                                   so the sky glows again

with ageless graffiti

   belonging to tonight

as much as to its first tender moments

                       perhaps as far back

                       as the big bang

or 1971

                                      I’m trying, Jim

someone named John wrote this in the sky


         an ode to him

                          Jim          a promise

                                           to whoever is looking up

                                           right now

I try to picture him

                           John         the sadness

                                            of his smile, the wars he made it through,

                                        that way he would hold a pen

                                        to write         something

                                                     that wrote


      a melancholy ghost,

                                          hopeful enough

                                        to have connected the most blinding stars

              so that when I close my eyes

              I can place his blazing words anywhere:

I’m trying Jim i’m trying Jim I’m
trying jim I’m tryig Jm

     I    ’m trying Ji m I’m trying J

im I’m trying john I’ m

             trying jiim

I have always thought, or at least I have thought recently,

              that when the world ends

              everything will


              and fold in on itself

                      as one                           like it was before,

                                                smaller than a pinhead,

   and it is comforting to realize that John would think this, too:

that the stars were flaming when I got here,
         but I also ignited

                                                  all of them;

I’m trying,
I’ve been trying this whole time,

I really have

         will you tell him? will you tell him for me, Jim?

tell him so he remembers
tell him so he can

                        spraypaint the sky

                                                                           with me


About the Author

Danielle Gennaro earned an MFA from Manhattanville College and has studied at the University of Wales with the Dylan Thomas International Summer School. She regularly takes workshops with Brooklyn Poets and she currently teaches music and works as a theatre technical director at a high school in Connecticut. She has previously been published in Oberon Poetry Magazine, Wizards in Space Literary Magazine, Pittsburgh Poetry Journal, Toho Journal Online, The Raw Art Review, Silver Rose Magazine, Lotus-eater Magazine, and Defunct Magazine.