Three poems about Barnsley from Paul Brookes—A Shock of Gold, Buried Treasure, and “Abandoned Workings.”
Adeena Karasick takes us on a satiric tour through the shards and fragments of literary and post-consumerist culture.
A hybrid essay-fiction flash set in a mystical garden that doesn’t exist in Jerusalem Recalled but possibly in Jerusalem Imagined.
Afraid & weak, NAZI werewolves bark, bite, howl, yip. If they didn’t run in packs, they’d be nothing, pornography.
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.
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.
This fantastic figuration of f-words features consonance oh such consonance in an experimental play of sound(ing) mean(ing).
Rosy photographs, rosy poems, and a discussion of poetry—hybrid writing: poem-essay-digital photography.
Any passage (metaphorically or literally) contains within it its messengers, its struggles, its need for wrestling.
In the developing neuro-network, gaia, quantum determinism
unfolds into refracted realities, glimmering sparks, momentum
of free will…
Winter window Outside the opportune window one pink head survives above geranium leaves blowing in the winter wind, covered with cold rain dropped from dimmed desire. The basil released its hope in the face of the war— forces of December and January— mere stalks rising above the window box, darkly silhouetted, […]
She’s slept for a couple of years, nearly, but the woman with a beard has asked to return, and I have obliged her and the toad whose garden she sometimes tends. They can be most insistent. If you have not read some of her history, you can search […]
I wrote the first draft of this poem twenty years ago, give or take a few months. Although I have sent it out many times, it never seems to have caught an editor’s attention. So, time to let it fly on its own here. Perhaps you will see […]
“Lately I’ve been waiting for the FBI to arrest me as a fraud,
or the CIA to hire me to spy on the inner lives of fools and idiots.”
Summer Summer prattles on like a chorus of croaking frogs about all of its deep pleasures with open desire, while winter indulgently listens, knowing the strength of her own secrets. Parties all unfold this way. Spring tries to enchant, while fall quietly stands by, his eyes glinting with […]
This is not a poem; it’s a fake.
Someone else’s words, images, metaphors
creeping on cat’s feet into my mind,
clawing their way to the top of my consciousness
as though they were mine, mined