Tag: poems

Prose Poetry

Broken Dreams: A Lexicographer Picks Up the Pieces by Robert Witmer

The judgment of death lowered upon all at the beginning of Genesis contains essentially everything that can be said about power.  —Elias Canetti What is beautiful for Nature herself is the all-encompassing necessity of now. Life. Spring. Leaves. Move. Without the wind. Milkweed on ICE. The cream of the crop. Curdled. Art walks a tightrope between nature and eternity. The point is not to make … Continue reading Broken Dreams: A Lexicographer Picks Up the Pieces by Robert Witmer

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Prose Poetry

Dada by Robert Witmer

To undress the corporate swindle and have him ride a stumbling donkey over palm branches strewn about in a hurricane such that the multitude might see what difference makes. Humbly to fit a natural self. To make real language possible again. Absolute reality is a calendar carved in snow, ticking like a time bomb. Dew on a mossy grave. Spring’s stultification of digital progress. Virga. … Continue reading Dada by Robert Witmer

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Prose Poetry

Selling the Mattress by Priscilla Atkins

Melodious as Groucho Marx, the middle-aged New York transplant answers Boyfriend’s and my ad (Valley Pennywise, August ‘80), taps at the screen door. When I open, he looks me in the eye. Offers his hand. Bends. Mustache tickles my skin. I’m a twenty-two-year-old fairy princess. Alive. Winged. In the whole back-and-forth over the queen size (or was it full?—God, I was young), he ignores Boyfriend. … Continue reading Selling the Mattress by Priscilla Atkins

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Poetry

Reading William S. Burroughs by Jeffrey Zable

is like trying to decipher the scrawl of someonelying face down in their own vomit, pen in hand,making strange marks on the sidewalk. People passing by look at this someonewith a sense of profound sadness, and out of pityleave such items on his back as rotten apples,broken trophies, dead lizards and plane ticketsto flights that unfortunately went downwithout a sole survivor. And when they arrive … Continue reading Reading William S. Burroughs by Jeffrey Zable

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Poetry

Lady July by Sophie Roy

I  I ask you for signs and you, buried at sea send me mermaids and foreign license plates  I am too keen to look *** I have sea salt in my hairReallyTsunami II Pas de nouvelles à annoncer Pas de messages personnels Mais sur les murs de mon ennui, j’écris ton nom en cursiveà l’encre bleue soigneusement, comme l’écolière comme une folle, une éxilée comme future amoureuse —une amante  Comme la lune au soleil comme … Continue reading Lady July by Sophie Roy

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Poetry

I Don’t Know If It’s True or Not by Jeffrey Zable

but years ago a friend of mine—now deceased—told me that Beethoven would often compose while nude from the bottom down, sitting on a bench that had a large hole in it, with a bucket just below the hole so that if he had to urinateor defecate he wouldn’t have to get up and potentially lose part of what he was working on. And my friend … Continue reading I Don’t Know If It’s True or Not by Jeffrey Zable

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Poetry

A Soft Breeze by Frankie Laufer

The sound of a bass guitar is moving a row of distant wheat to the east. The sun is shining just like in the beginning. Swaying back and forth like rhythmic dancers.They are captured on a cloud of silent time.No names are necessary; they know each other from previous lives. The drummer is quietly playing my favorite song, and yours too.His past love is sitting behind me staring … Continue reading A Soft Breeze by Frankie Laufer

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Poetry

David Hockney Is Dead by Dale Champlin

The last time I saw David Hockneywe were in the postage stamp-sized elevatorto the fourth floor at ABC Carpet & Home. I was probably fifty—he sixty. Surprisingly,he was wearing jeans and a white t-shirt. I felt like a small girl with an eager face,too beet-maroon to address him directly.“What are you shopping for?” I could have asked—or made banal chit-chat. Instead, I stared at the dirty wooden floor … Continue reading David Hockney Is Dead by Dale Champlin

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Poetry

Hopper by John Grey

My journey took me toa place called Hopperand the last gas station in Americathat was owned by an actual human being.A windblown flag read “Ernie’s,”though that owner’s actual namewas John, just like mine.Oh well…there’s actual and there’s actual.In the window of his tiny officewas an old rusty signfor a brand of gas and oil called “White Eagle.”I took a photograph to save its future. I … Continue reading Hopper by John Grey

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Poetry

The Travails of a Homeless Man by John Grey

No particular homemeans every placeis my home.And what roof could carrythe sky’s coattails?But, some nights,the stars are particularly starless,the fresh airbreathes darkerthan bad whiskeyand the doorways I sleep inare narrower, more confiningthan any roomthese bones have laid up in.And where’s the romance,when I smell worse than I feeland everyone who’s out forwhat they can getstill looks at those with nothinglike they’ve got something to give.My … Continue reading The Travails of a Homeless Man by John Grey

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