The collective failure of ethical standards
Even from this distance I could go out the door it would bang shut and crumble
The sin is existing.
Her brown eyes, how a fig considers itself.
I am not a guide for every traveler of loss.
Now that the Israeli has left, it falls on me to make the salad.
I suffer visions and many indignities while looking for the Lobster
you quit wearing pants loaf around your yard in hole-nipped panties
We stop doing dishes while a mile unwinds from the tree outside.
my love is a glass shard, a knife made of madness and moonlight, and there are already way too many fragments in this house
the man is stayed bent over the canvas of my sofa. the man is me the man is him self and I bring down the whip…
I don’t know why I’m in the garden kneeling on dirt
Live the rest of your life from one worst case to another.
People have always coped with flooding, and they learned to cope with death.
we drove on through the blue seal of morning as the turbines turned and winked out their hearts
my friends’ fathers are dropping I mean dying like flies
The poetry of Brian S. Ellis unravels, inverts, investigates, and complicates. His poems are radical koans and invitations to forego common narratives.
it’s touch-and-go with me and weddings
and then her eyes fully opened — blazed through with strands of mud
Long after midnight, we’re talking about our first time