POETRY

“Poetry is language at its most distilled and most powerful.”
—Rita Dove
beach
On Undressing a Color / On Undressing a Girl

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.

woman at bar
After She Told Me You Pushed Her Down the Stairs

Empty vessels
make the most sound, I think,
as you rip the fairy lights off the handrail.

Clueless & Briefly Gorgeous

I buy too much, for someone of my stature.
could pawn a skinny metaphor to purchase a plump skin.
its reputed in our lineage— to daydream a life that shreds our pockets.

painting of apple and grapes
Feast Of

anger, like you can sink teeth into, candy apple

appetites

you quit wearing pants
loaf around your yard
in hole-nipped panties

Like dirt

this is what I want you to to see:
leaves falling because it is too late for them not to

Back Suplex

Gravel-scatted hell &
we were blessed to be able
to hold on for even a heartbeat

Making Israeli Salad

Now that the Israeli has left, it falls
on me to make the salad.

Soft Porn and Cuban Pine

It recommended
soft porn, as gentle prodding and petting parent
to parent might calm and soothe the kid.

An Interview with Brian S. Ellis

The poetry of Brian S. Ellis unravels, inverts, investigates, and complicates. His poems are radical koans and invitations to forego common narratives.

I Garden at the Edge of Autumn

There is so little left of the tomato plants.

Letter To a Young Poet

Do not say anything anybody else has said ever. Things are not “bleached by sun.”

Lavandula

Listen to me: I know
the winter gloom in
mid-summer…

Finding My Fix

I slumped in front of a massive desk, a passive patient corroded with failure and dread.

love poem with dead leaves & color

I would always rather be happy than
dignified. Rather held than held
in awe.

[Zoetrope with Particulates in it and a Newborn]

and then her eyes fully opened — blazed through with strands of mud

Vase

The storm passes without snow.
The car waits loyally in the back lot.

My Multiverses

It is the 70s. 1970s? 2570s? Who knows?
Audre and I have a penthouse in New York.

The River

I myself should never have been born