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

This is my penance

I have a tendency
to be a despot in love

this is something I did not know
until much too late

I overidealize
and I built you up to be
someone so much different
than who I fell for originally

worse, still
I overidealize myself.

perhaps more of a crime
and all the more regrettable

felt so damned sorry for myself
when I had an equal hand.

So, I’m sorry.

I’m not who I used to think I was,

you deserved so much better,

and it took the long way around to realize that.

Please remember the finer bits

and forgive me, 

for this is a penance,

and it’s all I have left.

The worst thing
a sailor can do to yeh,
is be perfectly honest.

On the whole,
a positive breed,
all “fair winds”
and “calm seas” to yeh.

But a sailor’s never worse
than perfectly true,
a level answer
and a true read.

What a life to lead
what a thing to be

To work aboard a ship

     The sun rose over the placid harbor. The tugs hadn’t left dock yet. Freighters were still chugging along at ten or so on the Canadian side. The single sound over all of the North Coast Harbor, save for the occasional squawk of gulls and slosh of minor chop against the starboard side, was the twist and click of the key turning tumblers and opening the stern gate to the GOODTIME III. Rubbing sleep and hangover from his eyes, he turned a new key in the door’s padlock and opened that, too. He strolled along the familiar deck. The same ragged carpeting he’d walked miles and miles upon. Up the forward ladder to the second deck, and doubling back toward the aft end of the ship. Looking out over the lake, he was disappointed not to spy any freighters coming in, or any expectant tugs waiting with the same patience and diligence for their laker as a loyal dog showed waiting for his master to return home from a long day of work. He walked to the aft stairwell and continued up another deck, and turned to his right to marvel upon the skyline so many take for granted. Burke Lakefront Airport, the Doubletree Hotel, The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, the Science Center, the Browns Stadium, and the William G. Mather. Just as quickly as he turned affectionately toward his city, he turned back as he had thousands of times. He strode the length of the deck and let himself into the pilothouse. He sat down in the captain’s chair, laid hand on the wheel, and looked out over the harbor with a keen eye.
     To do anything else in the morning, he thought, was such a waste.

a change

The things that once stirred him

fireflies blinking in the canopy of the tree line
the autumn smoke smell on that old red hoodie
beautiful girls in sundresses and sunglasses walking downtown
the sky reflecting green across the water’s choppy surface
cool rain on a warm day 

these things came to taste like ash
and all that mattered
was good friends and strong drink


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.