I count my homes— those of my scattered youth the sanctuary of our young family the intermittent rest stops of apartments and vacations.
I don’t know why I’m in the garden kneeling on dirt
I slumped in front of a massive desk, a passive patient corroded with failure and dread.
If my life was the size of my arm, I would stretch it out for you.
Empty vessels make the most sound, I think, as you rip the fairy lights off the handrail.
The storm passes without snow. The car waits loyally in the back lot.
I imagined a cascade of slow death for all / that mattered…
You’ve spent a lifetime training for this.
I’msorry I‘ll see what happens iLife
I suffer visions and many indignities while looking for the Lobster
this is what I want you to to see: leaves falling because it is too late for them not to
It is the 70s. 1970s? 2570s? Who knows? Audre and I have a penthouse in New York.
Her brown eyes, how a fig considers itself.
The poetry of Brian S. Ellis unravels, inverts, investigates, and complicates. His poems are radical koans and invitations to forego common narratives.
I tap at the alphabet while a single deer taps at the dirt beyond the brush on the far side of the tree line.
My grandmother asked, “Does it feel like being widowed?”
The two of us toast to a man we both love, to whatever degree, clink our glasses and laugh…
I have an axe with hearts gashed
You said it was okay to blame what goes wrong on the planet
It recommended soft porn, as gentle prodding and petting parent to parent might calm and soothe the kid.