Ghosts for hire, whispers in her mouth, cysts to feel, the symmetry of a gift.
this is what I want you to to see: leaves falling because it is too late for them not to
Every so often, they add a tattoo in honor of some long-forgotten love.
You’ve spent a lifetime training for this.
I don’t know why I’m in the garden kneeling on dirt
my friends’ fathers are dropping I mean dying like flies
I am not a guide for every traveler of loss.
Part of being a good sad person is always painting the shadows in the right direction and knowing what sorrow to art with.
we drove on through the blue seal of morning as the turbines turned and winked out their hearts
I have observed, the theorist I am
We stop doing dishes while a mile unwinds from the tree outside.
I suffer visions and many indignities while looking for the Lobster
The poetry of Brian S. Ellis unravels, inverts, investigates, and complicates. His poems are radical koans and invitations to forego common narratives.
you know that baby swallows make silver ripples in wild rivers to court reeds?
I have an axe with hearts gashed
and then her eyes fully opened — blazed through with strands of mud
Try not to see your own predicament in every fucking thing.
Dylan Krieger’s poetry is unflinching, grotesque, and beautiful. Her work tackles trauma, wrestles authority, and is a decadent sonic feast.
Empty vessels make the most sound, I think, as you rip the fairy lights off the handrail.
and apples, mackintosh mostly, but any kind left in The Pub at the Assisted Living Place