poetry
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Grandpa
must must must must must must must must must must must must must must must must must must must must must must must must must must must must must must must must must must must must must must must must must must must must must must must venture families blaze through canadian rockies into furnace …
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If I Said Fire
Merlin the color ofThe oft published bird who Won’t worry about pleuralPossessive plural effusion Stretching techInsists on easy book With no words body withNo interstitial little bird don’t peck my vanity and ruineverything.
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After Nathan Ballingrud
He did not look like a man who would change her life or three men lying in what will someday be the morning before going to work or kissing silence the pristine clarity of purposeful breathing of dogs straining against the hiss of runners the opalescent arc of long imagined reunions with god’s joy leaking…
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Poem ending with an ungoogleable unit
Poem ending with an ungoogleable unit of meaning from bly from transtromer from shame dusting of the zeroth issue says gesundheit to the dog liver eating johnson proud tin moons implying nothing or short slippy dusting of meaning everything parking tickets scared crow daughter it’s ashamed unpaid the only way sure did google the dusting…
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East Asian Shoegaze
Bright and adventurous pomegranates seven o seven pull apart songs of temperament their temperament is not going to change they are too old for that.
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‘(We lived in a cloud of recklessness)’ by Joshua Clover
We lived in a cloud of recklessness South of Market in a house with an accent when he said Taylorism it sounded like terrorism we lived in a cloud of restlessness and felt ourselves to be adrift east of China west of France south of Market north of Chance we lived in a fog of…
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Gusano 7
One decides to warn the others or not of the crocodile shore its great imposition or not understood with teeth in the present tense of fascism o don’t say facism say they them say coca cola new line bottles with petrol the number flutters off the page subracting the abyss with a hoot in the…
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Human Experience
Either art is the site of a philosophical investigation which is relevant to human experience or it is nothing.” —Mel Bochner
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‘The Swimmers’ by Edward Hirsch
We warbled on the muddy banks and waded up to our throats in the Delaware River, talking about Ovid washing himself in the Black Sea and Paul Celan floating face down in the Seine. We swam arm over arm through the green silt and coasted along on our backs, marveling and mourning for Shelley drowning…
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‘The Truth’ by Natasha Rao
I am only kind to my fatherin poems he will never read. I try to imagine him small the way my grandmother tells it: patient, deerlimbed, ponderingpolynomials. Wanting only a Toblerone bar for his birthdayto eat alone in his room away from the violence of explodingraindrops, pitiless Madras summer. I wonder if he is proudof…
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