I am not a guide for every traveler of loss.
I have an axe with hearts gashed
how does an afternoon turn on its axis?
I don’t know why I’m in the garden kneeling on dirt
Part of being a good sad person is always painting the shadows in the right direction and knowing what sorrow to art with.
Now that the Israeli has left, it falls on me to make the salad.
it’s touch-and-go with me and weddings
Even from this distance I could go out the door it would bang shut and crumble
You let the yellow glow from eye sockets. The building up the street is burning faster and faster.
Try not to see your own predicament in every fucking thing.
It recommended soft porn, as gentle prodding and petting parent to parent might calm and soothe the kid.
The poetry of Brian S. Ellis unravels, inverts, investigates, and complicates. His poems are radical koans and invitations to forego common narratives.
I imagine that undressing a color, though, would be so much like peeling a memory away from the grey and the white matter of your brain.
I would always rather be happy than dignified. Rather held than held in awe.
In my universe, my arm carries a heart and flowers, my back a misguided quote
Okay, picture this: We’re in an elevator. The elevator shuts down. It doesn’t matter where we’re going, only that we’re alone.
I like to think I’m also sprung, released from the furnace knocks, done with the heavy meat stews and salty soups.
You said it was okay to blame what goes wrong on the planet
you know that baby swallows make silver ripples in wild rivers to court reeds?
I am still waiting for the lion