jyocum
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On August 19th, during the literary journal HAD’s fifth anniversary submission call, the editors announced: “If anyone guesses the exact number of submissions we’ll get, we’ll let you guest edit a call.” Tanya Žilinskas and I both guessed 537, the closest guess of anyone by a long shot, thereby winning the prize of co-hosting a…
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“Where the kittens hide” appears in the October 2025 issue of Pinhole Poetry.
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In the immortal words of Cady Heron, “It’s October 3rd.” And that means that Pinhole Poetry published their Issue 4.3 today, featuring works by twenty-five different contributors, including yours truly. My poem “Where the kittens hide” appears on the fifth page, and I couldn’t be more pleased to see it there. This little piece was…
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If you’re tired of hunting around for my infinitely witty posts on Bluesky and/or Mastodon, then friend have I got great news for you! I’ve created a new spot for News on this very site, and it’s called “News.” Your one-stop shop for all news related to J. L. Yocum. As a teaser for a…
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Why is a grappling hook like a toothbrush?Why is a chrysanthemum like a handgrenade? Why is my beating heartlike the surprise in your voice? Why is a terracotta soldier like the cat on my lap?Why is a falling knife like the sound of breakingglass? Why is this stab of lightninglike a peal of glad laughter…
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I’m so sorry to hear youhave wings, a half dozen, you don’t looklike a seraph. I’ve never noticed you’re fullof eyes. Sorry to hear you are really an empty throne, thousand-spokedwheels under your soles,forty teeth in your mouth and too-long arms.You’re so bright! This must be hard, your feathersunfolding, the razors of halogen, the bladesof…
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When my bones shake off this spirit, bury mein the Valley of the Kings! Let tomb robbersanoint themselves egyptologists, drinkclaret from my skull, eat caviarfrom my kneecaps. To them remains the sun in the sky, its fleet of swift-footed cloudsand itinerant condors. The rainbowand the aurora, the sleet, hail and shower.The star and streak of…
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O spinning wheel of my mistakes, splashyparade of my charlatan past selves. This splitin my skull might never mend. Stitchesof the prior evening find flame, eruptand take a dark cold hold of my hand. Behind the shock-orange of my shut eyelids,neon words strobe, in a crookedscribble, repeating: What have I donelast night? What have I…
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Clouds hang unmoving in the windlesssky. The one tree just waits. Appalledat the asphalt. Taken aback by the baldlie. All joking aside, it’s a menace. My desk hulks like a boulder in the officeupstairs, accumulating tasks. Wiredfor work and work alone. Yet here I cower,limbs limp, a heart-sleeved mislaid puppet. That is to say: The…
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Wherever thistles wither, little knotsare knuckled, blossoms rot, leaf and stem.Stitches loosen at a dress’s hemwhile a mother jangles thimbles in her pockets. The myriad ways to savor a Highland Scotch:this churning storm cloud; the annoying friendtwisting in one’s chest; the scar beginningto itch again, with a picture yellowing in its locket. A melody wafts…