My name is Jordan Kit and these are my words.

Pick up a copy of my collection of poetry and short stories, Ignoring the Mistakes

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La Cave Du Vine

The lights, the lights
So soft and warm
A kind touch in the dark
Soft tunes lazing
In the too hip atmosphere
Candles lit and votives out
How forgiving a place
The cigarettes are too much
But the beer is cheap
And how warm, how rosy my cheeks
Thinking of you
In the basement bar of Coventry
Of the things we did to one another
Thinking of
The lights, the lights


That North Coast city of such
strange squalor and exuberance,
like a Detroit determined to
shuffle off the albatross.
My hub for so long, now the
beginning point of a new journey,
months of tragedy personal and otherwise,
coming to a head—got to flee!
and so headed West, my American
birthright cashed in on some
several pages of perforated tickets,
my currency for change,
first stop Denver by way of Chicago,
Omaha, myriad small towns and errant truck stops,
prefaced by the usual dreary
Greyhound station waits,
barely awake, some dread marionette hunched over,
watching the clock tick minutes away
waiting for the seemingly never arriving departure time
and it all ends in drinks as it ever does, 
over at Becky’s, famous  E 18th corner bar,
just down the way,
and oh lord, get properly swacked,
but spy the time and snatch my bag
bounce away
board the carriage
and away I go
from my home,

Black Market Lit— Take a peak at my latest published poem over here

My piece “Two dirty hands wash clean” appears in the inaugural issue of Black Market Lit, take a look!

skeleton dance

"But I thought…"
began so many
broken old hearts
discarded in gutters
by way of bus stops
glee gone with
the flick of a wrist
emotionless skeletons
clattering against one another
tangled at the hips
howling for
for a spark of warmth
like capturing a photograph
subject distilled into a past tense
as the future ceases to be

What is left where cracks form

A mouthful of sand
sharp all the way down
warm needles in the gut
broken glass from there

They never said
in all the Disney pictures
that sometimes this
is what the ending looks like

The weight of
their clothes
their habits
their ghosts

for always too long.


Are we not velvet
in the whiskey dawn
looking only for truth,
a relief from life’s
     rough edges—
a mortal coarseness
forgotten at our lips’ first
—hands on thighs thinking
are we not velvet?

Poopy Poem For Ian Rehn

And here I am
and here I sit
full of thoughts
and full of shit

thinking deep
thinking true
wishing I would
just go poo

My feuding thoughts
did make a truce
and then I went
and laid a deuce.

-a poop poem for Ian Rehn @

Meditation #26

Give up
that which makes you strong
and you will become
even stronger.

The swordless warrior
placates the hordes.

In my dreams

In my dreams
the distance isn’t so terribly far
we get coffee in the mornings
make nice little breakfasts and dance in the kitchen
read on the sofa in the afternoons
go for long walks and talk till our minds are laid bare
enjoy music more deeply together than ever could apart
split a bottle of wine and watch the sun set slowly
fall tangled into bed together and only reluctantly drift off into sleep

because in my dreams,
life is finally so sweet,
that I don’t want to miss
a second of the real thing,
of you.

Meditation #25

Contemplative glances
out a bus window
pithy thoughts arising
in the early morning dims
heading westward always
a kind of American birthright
that boils the blood
into a frenetic shuffle seaward
and as the carriage stalls out
I don’t wait for the shuttle,
just keep walking
with nothing behind
nothing really ahead
thinking I’d end it all
if I weren’t so damn curious
about it all

Meditation #24

Luck in the age of entropy
a forgotten kiss
bequeathed among the weeds
in a way we used to speak
that we passed on to our kids
who lost it all the same.

Identity Series- Part One

This is part one of a series of posts in which I will try as best I can to explain myself as wholly as I can, and I’m going to do so in unedited, stream of thought rambles.

          I seem to always have the right words ready, except for when it comes to explaining myself. It’s been the same way for a long, long time. Some people have picked up on it better than others, some never do, lose interest, move along. The feeling of incongruity isn’t something you want to stew in. Perhaps this is even less than a misguided shout into the abyss, but I thought I’d try to lay bare as best I can some pieces of self.
          The biggest hurdle in the social sphere, is that I’m very internal. I’m a thinker, possessed by daydreams and reveries. Constantly mulling over ideas for stories, poems, idea I might never even use. I watch, I listen, and I soak in scenes because I’m genuinely interested in what might happen. Sometimes I don’t ask questions to things easily answered because I want to figure it out or pick it up through context. These are things I rejoice in. Everything interests me, and I find myself trying to figure it out and understand it. It sounds great when I say it like that, but to others I’m just quiet and anti-social.
          To compound things, I do value my time to myself. I like to go running alone. Exploring new cities alone constituted most of my trip out west. When things got out of whack and times were tough, I went into the parks or passed the hours at Coe Lake, alone. I am comfortable this way. I’m not afraid of silence, or anonymity, and I really do thrive in that meditative, solitary state. There’s something very zen about it, and it refreshes me deeply.
          So to sum things up so far, from a more external perspective, I’m anti-social, quiet, and hate hanging out with people. I get it. That’s a side that a lot of people will only ever see. But that’s not really the whole picture.
          I adore people. I really, really do. There is a fine line between alone and lonely, and I don’t like to cross it more than I have to. I value people that interest me, and there are people that draw me in like blood in the water, and I just have to know them. I’m always curious in the going-ons of my friends, of their misadventures, their weird fantasies, their personality flaws, their vices, the last sad thoughts before they go to sleep. They make me better, and I try to be there, and be loyal. Some of my friends are very damaged people, broken in the most important places, frayed at the edges, and I love them all the more for it.
          I’m not quiet all the time. Sure, I might not be as talkative as most people, but I’m not certain most people should be. I aim to be honest and genuine when I talk to people. I want to know more. I wait my turn. I listen deeply. I think of what I can do to help. I try to understand what you’re feeling, what motivates you. I’m congenial with everyone and can flit from group to group, but when it comes down to it, I surround myself with people I love, and want to know and spend time with, and that I want to be involved with, and that is where I’m in my element.
          Moving on, I have a really big weakness. I feel very deeply. It’s a part of that empathy bit. I fall in love very easily, in real, romantic, and lasting ways as well as fleeting every day share glance in passing kinds of ways. I spend so much time thinking about people and abstract concepts and emotions, that I tend to idolize people. This has been my Achilles Heel in some of the most painful times of my life. It wasn’t until I learned to pull back on it a little, that I realized how much I tried to look past peoples’ mistakes. I always looked past the bad to the good, and got bit more times than I’d care to admit. I’m the long relationship guy, and I’m also the guy that comes up on the raw end of the deal when they fall apart as they sometimes do.
          I’m a seeker. I don’t know what the meaning of life is, but I’m usually pretty good at figuring out what it isn’t. I’ve worked plenty of jobs, some that I could do till the day I died and feel fulfilled in some kind of way, but more often than not, I don’t feel fully satisfied in the depths of my soul. I need more. It’s not enough to make a lot of money. We all know that, but very few people ever pursue it. It’s espoused in so many movies, books, TV shows—you should do what makes you happy. Helping people makes me happy. Giving people opportunities to find their own happiness, that does it too. I feel that if I have the power to make things better, I should.

That is all for now. Tomorrow I’ll continue, but I wanted to get some of that on the table. I hope you’ll respond to this and perhaps take up the reins for yourself as well. 

Meditation #23

Here comes the feeling
of a new beginning,
when only just last night
I drank alone on the porch
watching the somnolent
second shifters walking home
after a long day,
and all I thought about
was how detached I’ve been.

But this is a beginning
and I am ready.

Meditation #22

Tonight, I’m full of questions
and strange notions.
Maybe it’s all a dream,
wouldn’t it be funny?
Would you live differently?
Would you skip the tip?
How would you spend your day?
Your nights?
Which of your
dirtiest, truest secrets
would you bring to light?
Which promises to keep?
Which to break?

Such things,
such beautiful questions,
these that color my waking hours,
inform my dreams,
and inspire to live
just a bit more freely.

When Smoking Seemed Fine

There was a time when all the age old warnings of my forefamily took precedent. “You’ll rot yeh insides!” they’d say about the stuff. Gramps smoked off a pipe on the front porch for years. He’d sit in a wicker chair at the edge of the porch and angle it just so and sit in quiet contemplation and torch a quarter bag of tobacky in two hours, just set there watching the cars roll by and the clouds whirl on.
           I used to sit on the cement front steps that led up to the porch, and I’d try to catch his attention. He was always rapt in his own silent reveries, but whenever I did manage to snake away his attention, he’d say, “You better’n hell do as I say ‘n never as I do, y’ hear?”
          Just a little kid, I’d go off and play in the yard with my involved child fantasies, and think nothing of it. But years went on and I had my first drag in high school. Hell, I toked up for the first time in high school. Never cultivated much of a habit of either, but few things felt as nice in a small backwater town as picking up a single cigarillo from the Main Street convenient store and smoking ‘er lying across the hood of a car, watching them country stars.
          Those were the first days. Fresh health, a bill of invincibility. Didn’t care much then, even considering every warning to the contrary. I hit college and then those lonely summer days hit when I was the only one in town. Soon enough I was smoking my own pipe on the back porch or in a chair with my bare feet settled in the grass, just thinking about the people I missed most.
          Things are different now. Not much of an appetite for bud and typically much less for cigarettes, though every once in a long straight while I’ll stomach a fearsome hunger for one. And if the night conspires rightly, there I’ll stand, at the corner of Main and Howard, with a cigarette between my fingers, drizzling ash and wisping smoke into the inky night air, wondering what happened to the days that went by like minutes.