The sin is existing.
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.
The two of us toast to a man we both love, to whatever degree, clink our glasses and laugh…
I have observed, the theorist I am
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.
It is the 70s. 1970s? 2570s? Who knows? Audre and I have a penthouse in New York.
Lights on the dashboard spell out “You still can’t kiss me”
Millions of Americans have been affected by identity theft. It’s probably the greenhouse gases.
Live the rest of your life from one worst case to another.
Try not to see your own predicament in every fucking thing.
Any still figure at mid-late evening, when the long shadows make even crumbs appear arranged like furniture.
Yes I am guilty, I’m guilty. A sin was desirable then. Bring the dancer back to the stalks.
Her brown eyes, how a fig considers itself.
I like to think I’m also sprung, released from the furnace knocks, done with the heavy meat stews and salty soups.
If my life was the size of my arm, I would stretch it out for you.
a folksome, gruesome opera of gauze and malcontent.
You’ve spent a lifetime training for this.
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