You let the yellow glow from eye sockets. The building up the street is burning faster and faster.
this is what I want you to to see: leaves falling because it is too late for them not to
The poetry of Brian S. Ellis unravels, inverts, investigates, and complicates. His poems are radical koans and invitations to forego common narratives.
I like to think I’m also sprung, released from the furnace knocks, done with the heavy meat stews and salty soups.
We found in his suitcase T-shirts, his siddur, gifts he bought for his grandchildren…
love is a soggy tea stain on a grocery receipt
The sin is existing.
If America is Babylon / and you are an exile / newly arrived among pagans / Catholic, ‘Ngolan, Black, woman / you already know how to pray
Mostly he ate what was put on his plate snuck coffee grounds or dirt for a snack Once a zipper Unzipped
Try not to see your own predicament in every fucking thing.
I am still waiting for the lion
I want to roll in this moment until I become its vocabulary until I smell like the bones until I am its echo…
and apples, mackintosh mostly, but any kind left in The Pub at the Assisted Living Place
I don’t know why I’m in the garden kneeling on dirt
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.
It recommended soft porn, as gentle prodding and petting parent to parent might calm and soothe the kid.
a folksome, gruesome opera of gauze and malcontent.
Live the rest of your life from one worst case to another.
There is so little left of the tomato plants.
Her brown eyes, how a fig considers itself.