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Jon Jon Stefan

Poet and sociology student Jon Jon Stefan serves as a community activist, confronting issues of poverty and systematic injustice. Stefan's upbringing in foreign missions instilled in him a passion for the disadvantaged and an appreciation for diverse cultures. His poetry focuses on the complexities of the human psyche and relationships that impact it. In the same way his activism confronts problems within societal structures, his poetry confronts the emotional and relational structures that affect the mind. His collection of poems, Repatriated, will be featured in the upcoming, Black Diaspora anthology. 

by Jon Jon Stefan

and these people


who are so sick on their own saliva


they talk 

and they kiss 

and they spit


just to spit!



they don't have to accept


even what they want





these whore-headed con men?



so, who will say thank you?


so, who will say excuse me?


why would I admit ugly?


in my violent beauty?

When I will beat a gas leak


in a chess tournament?


I will step on gravity


until it whimpers under me.



And I will be wonderful


And I WILL live forever


on your hatred and worship.



I will protect us


I will protect us


I won't let another hair fall off your head. 

by Jon Jon Stefan


As if she was guided by the tracers of a ghost 

She pulled herself forward 

and ducked 

under shoulders of linen, cotton, noisy fabrics. 


She felt, not clearly, 

but strongly, 

feet stamping behind. 

She heard, 

not literally, 

whirring voices. 

Almost like instruments being tuned 

before erupting to an audience. 

Squeezing her temples between palms, 

the crowd made a track for the chase. 

They stared at her. 

And they only stared at her, 

with the fear and disgust she'd hope 

for the assailant. 

Yet, she couldn't look at herself. 

She was 

hardly a thing anymore. 

When she screamed, 

it ran over her thoughts 

like white-out. 



there was only city street. 



there was a woman on her knees. 

and then, 

a traffic jam resuming.

 by Jon Jon Stefan

Row of Houses_edited.jpg

His brain used to be 

like a ball of blisters 

pink, bubbling, warm 

most of all painful

a stirring 

under the hood of his skull. 

Once he saw 

an endless row of houses, 


like a nervous system 

instead of the busy city, 

where you could hear a gunshot 

followed by bored silence.

In this, 

you were right, 

and always respected. 

This was the end 

of the American dream.

He wakes up. 

His brain is now a shell of cracking calluses. 

A row of clams 

huddled around a cold salty pearl. 

He looks down 

at the street 

and snaps with every twig. 

Like a junky without a fix.

           He looks over his lawn 

                            picking at a gun 

                                          that isn't there.

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