Ma wrings a wet world of colors
Her brown eyes, how a fig considers itself.
Gravel-scatted hell & we were blessed to be able to hold on for even a heartbeat
I have an axe with hearts gashed
I slumped in front of a massive desk, a passive patient corroded with failure and dread.
it’s touch-and-go with me and weddings
You said it was okay to blame what goes wrong on the planet
Any still figure at mid-late evening, when the long shadows make even crumbs appear arranged like furniture.
Winter sat like a wolf on the horizon.
Should have found a job by now; should have slept in the night; should have boiled old coffee before noon.
It is the 70s. 1970s? 2570s? Who knows? Audre and I have a penthouse in New York.
this is what I want you to to see: leaves falling because it is too late for them not to
I tap at the alphabet while a single deer taps at the dirt beyond the brush on the far side of the tree line.
The collective failure of ethical standards
we drove on through the blue seal of morning as the turbines turned and winked out their hearts
Dylan Krieger’s poetry is unflinching, grotesque, and beautiful. Her work tackles trauma, wrestles authority, and is a decadent sonic feast.
Every so often, they add a tattoo in honor of some long-forgotten love.
Yes I am guilty, I’m guilty. A sin was desirable then. Bring the dancer back to the stalks.
The poetry of Brian S. Ellis unravels, inverts, investigates, and complicates. His poems are radical koans and invitations to forego common narratives.
Even from this distance I could go out the door it would bang shut and crumble