Truth be told, rain is the only entity qualified to judge what should become of any entity, including itself, who breaks the law. On a lighter note, rain is responsible for the existence of the hat. Boots too: because sans rains, no muds. I am reminded of the rain whenever it rains; and even when it doesn’t, even then. It falls or drops in loops, … Continue reading Connolly Ryan Poems, Day 5: “No One Tells the Rain”
On the bus to Northampton from Amherst I was sitting across from an old man with the wrecked blue eyes of a sunken mariner. Eyes so wet and blue and seen-through as any screen-door of the deep-south ever was, that to be caught looking into them was to be trapped in history itself. He caught me looking into them all right, and I was stunned … Continue reading Connolly Ryan Poems, Day 4: “Bus-ride In A Bottle”
With legs as long and felicitous as those, who needs Happy Hours? Even junkies crumpled in derelict alcoves are dying to know if her unbelievably shiny knees will be on the test. Of course her voice itself is the answer to why homicidal ruminations in the hearts of all men who have heard her speak are at an all time low. But did you also … Continue reading Connolly Ryan Poems, Day 3: “She Taught Her Neighborhood To Breathe”
The universe just wants to let you know that if you aren’t engaged Saturday night it would love a chance to change into something less universal and more intimate and then come through your window with breathtaking intentions as amatory as they are ambulatory and hoist you into its silken welkin or creamy empyrean or any other archaic words for firmament you prefer and then … Continue reading Connolly Ryan Poems, Day 2: “And Now A Word From The Universe”
I Have a Weakness or Soft Spot For: Sad ladies in Saturday leotards; drained lakes and the ducks who still drink from them; chocolate éclairs conquered on park benches by lonely young men in thrift-shop dress shirts; grassy inclines vibrant with trillium; city children on country field trips; foliage falling like a gaggle of gymnasts; little orange spiders who don’t care what death is; the … Continue reading Connolly Ryan Poems, Day 1: “I Have a Weakness or Soft Spot For:”
