Mostly he ate what was put on his plate snuck coffee grounds or dirt for a snack Once a zipper Unzipped
Winter sat like a wolf on the horizon.
I am still waiting for the lion
love is a soggy tea stain on a grocery receipt
Gravel-scatted hell & we were blessed to be able to hold on for even a heartbeat
I am not a guide for every traveler of loss.
It recommended soft porn, as gentle prodding and petting parent to parent might calm and soothe the kid.
He has stories that I am not in anymore. It’s healed this way.
my father holds his favorite drink
Lights on the dashboard spell out “You still can’t kiss me”
The poetry of Brian S. Ellis unravels, inverts, investigates, and complicates. His poems are radical koans and invitations to forego common narratives.
People have always coped with flooding, and they learned to cope with death.
Yes I am guilty, I’m guilty. A sin was desirable then. Bring the dancer back to the stalks.
Part of being a good sad person is always painting the shadows in the right direction and knowing what sorrow to art with.
I like to think I’m also sprung, released from the furnace knocks, done with the heavy meat stews and salty soups.
If America is Babylon / and you are an exile / newly arrived among pagans / Catholic, ‘Ngolan, Black, woman / you already know how to pray
I don’t know why I’m in the garden kneeling on dirt
Do not say anything anybody else has said ever. Things are not “bleached by sun.”
Every so often, they add a tattoo in honor of some long-forgotten love.
my love is a glass shard, a knife made of madness and moonlight, and there are already way too many fragments in this house