The poetry of Brian S. Ellis unravels, inverts, investigates, and complicates. His poems are radical koans and invitations to forego common narratives.
Any still figure at mid-late evening, when the long shadows make even crumbs appear arranged like furniture.
We found in his suitcase T-shirts, his siddur, gifts he bought for his grandchildren…
The storm passes without snow. The car waits loyally in the back lot.
Empty vessels make the most sound, I think, as you rip the fairy lights off the handrail.
Just starlight and some small scribbling across vinyl.
It is the 70s. 1970s? 2570s? Who knows? Audre and I have a penthouse in New York.
and apples, mackintosh mostly, but any kind left in The Pub at the Assisted Living Place
In my universe, my arm carries a heart and flowers, my back a misguided quote
Yes I am guilty, I’m guilty. A sin was desirable then. Bring the dancer back to the stalks.
You are strange, my mother said, dwelling on the past.
I want to roll in this moment until I become its vocabulary until I smell like the bones until I am its echo…
Should have found a job by now; should have slept in the night; should have boiled old coffee before noon.
Ma wrings a wet world of colors
Dylan Krieger’s poetry is unflinching, grotesque, and beautiful. Her work tackles trauma, wrestles authority, and is a decadent sonic feast.
love is a soggy tea stain on a grocery receipt
Her brown eyes, how a fig considers itself.
I am still waiting for the lion
the strands of your hair on the bathroom tiles aren’t sketching defeat. that’s you spitting disease in the face with another day you’ve woken up to.
Live the rest of your life from one worst case to another.