Gravel-scatted hell & we were blessed to be able to hold on for even a heartbeat
I like to think I’m also sprung, released from the furnace knocks, done with the heavy meat stews and salty soups.
and apples, mackintosh mostly, but any kind left in The Pub at the Assisted Living Place
you quit wearing pants loaf around your yard in hole-nipped panties
I myself should never have been born
The poetry of Brian S. Ellis unravels, inverts, investigates, and complicates. His poems are radical koans and invitations to forego common narratives.
and then her eyes fully opened — blazed through with strands of mud
I don’t know why I’m in the garden kneeling on dirt
my father holds his favorite drink
He has stories that I am not in anymore. It’s healed this way.
We found in his suitcase T-shirts, his siddur, gifts he bought for his grandchildren…
It is the 70s. 1970s? 2570s? Who knows? Audre and I have a penthouse in New York.
Even as the sun warms the concrete the long nights’ sensual cold lingers in my clothes.
Dylan Krieger’s poetry is unflinching, grotesque, and beautiful. Her work tackles trauma, wrestles authority, and is a decadent sonic feast.
Try not to see your own predicament in every fucking thing.
four-thirty a.m.
You let the yellow glow from eye sockets. The building up the street is burning faster and faster.
Even from this distance I could go out the door it would bang shut and crumble
here is the sky in stop motion, flickering, a still shot in monochrome
Millions of Americans have been affected by identity theft. It’s probably the greenhouse gases.