Death is a tribe
“Death is a tribe,” five poem from Linda Chown on Meta/ Phor(e) /Play accompanied by four digital artworks by Michael Dickel. Check out their work…
“Death is a tribe,” five poem from Linda Chown on Meta/ Phor(e) /Play accompanied by four digital artworks by Michael Dickel. Check out their work…
A poem, Kiddush on the Solstice, and digital landscapes, HaEtz HaChaim 1–7, from Michael Dickel on Meta/ Phor(e) /Play.
In·tri·ca·tion | \ ˌin‧trə̇ˈkāshən, -trēˈ-\ 1 obsolete : complication, complexity; 2 : interrelation, intermeshing —
Linda Chown’s 5 poems complexly intermesh voices, views, and arts.
Book review of gary lundy’s poetry collection, “each room echoes absence,” plus six new poems of his.
Moon Song, Driving it Home and Keeping it There, Vanishing Act | Three Poems by Jennifer Juneau | Meta/ Phor(e) /Play
Three poems from Karen Alkalay-Gut: What I need, I am a connoisseur of insomnia, and Avishag Speaks.
Six poems by gary lundy—through sights and sounds into observations close and deep.
Tuvi Ornat goes out for a walk, ends up in a cave. Could it be Plato’s? | Short Story | Meta/ Phor(e) /Play
Visual poetry/commentary/sociology/whatever it is to you. Nex(+)us by Michael Dickel on Meta/Phor(e)/Play.
A flight of fancy—escape through language, desire, politics—an end game—a poem by Michael Dickel.
These 3 poems by gary lundy dance to music & drink coffee—reading your meaning, meaning your reading.
Short poem and art—a cold and wet egret. I could say I have no egrets, but it wouldn’t be true.
A hybrid essay-fiction flash set in a mystical garden that doesn’t exist in Jerusalem Recalled but possibly in Jerusalem Imagined.
As he wrote Musée des Beaux Arts
Auden danced with Isherwood. He asked about a young man
who had caught their attention long ago in Berlin.
Deconstruction
I’ll take your hyper-inflated
phallus, ego-distended balloon,
id-fueled hot-air engine…
Time twists around after scientists think they’ve accelerated a particle faster than light (it was a loose wire…)
An old man remembers when time stood still as a bike tipped too far going around a corner and what it was like to fall out to space.
A surreal poem in a minor key, falling out of the world and into the arms of one who lives in dreams.