Month: March 2026
-
+
+
+
+
+
+
I. The H, a gaudy and excessive letter, paddles the cattle of the sun. Their totemic bodies, constructed of songs you shouldn’t get high to, advance toward their subterranean home because I was anxious and went to sleep with my hair wet. Now there’s a constant flow of visitors: the…
-
+
+
+
+
+
+
At two weeks with almost no sleep,I am healthy and alive, movingback into the ocean of Ohio.In my mind, I’ve become a systemof transmissions and waste removal,of lymph and chemicals and clouds on the endless edge of non-dream.I lie awake stumbling throughthe weeds and glowing decadesof plastic, architecture, amnesiaand pure…
-
+
+
+
+
+
+
Hell, my ardent sisters, be assured,Is where we’re bound-Marina Tsvetaevatrans. by Stephen Edgar a lion / he wasn’t a lion tho / just a dead man no no no no I cannot excite morethan my fish scales falling tothe ground dead teach your childrenabout the drowningbath and they will always beclean…
-
+
+
+
+
+
+
I met the other AMBER today we were vacuuming the BEACH where did we find our outlets we were born with them all the AMBERS born into circuited exchange now we can always hear the rattle of CRAB CARCASSES DRIED KELP EMPTY CANS OF SUGAR- FREE SODA SAND FLEAS…
-
+
+
+
+
+
+
A man in a frock coat representing incestReceiving congratulations from incest’s hot windAn exhausted rose holds up a bird’s corpseLeaden bird where do you keep your basket of songAnd the rations for your serpentine brood of watch chainsOnce you are done with death you will be a drunken compassA halter…
-
+
+
+
+
+
+
— from Kelly Hoffer’s Christmas card—-riso printed by Kelly Clare! — Kelly Hoffer is a poet and book artist. She is the author of two full-length collections of poetry, UNDERSHORE (Lightscatter Press, 2023) and Fire Series (U Pitt Press, forthcoming 2026), and the microchap the photo I don’t write about…
-
+
+
+
+
+
+
I’m tired of the crumpled-up moon.I want to inject my girlfriend’s dadwith a McDonald’s ice cream shakebecause I know he is an old sick fuckand would enjoy it. I’m tiredof the way dreams worktheir way up through your skinlike little, purple splinters.I go to sleep and see myselfinside of God’s…
-
+
+
+
+
+
+
Birds do not breathe anything.They are an anything that breathes.Anything that breathes is a bird out here, where the trees give birth to pencils.Where pencils give birth in the trees.Where the birth-dark trees out-hear the pencils is where I live, hummed and yellowed by the dark.Where the darkness hums its…
-
+
+
+
+
+
+
One turns a knob, enters roomexits similarly you were “hatted”and pleased with your hat squatting in a little corner thinking “I am not nervous!” November fly, November fly, buzzing in the house You will be killed without mercy Because you are annoying and we do not Understand you — from…
-
+
+
+
+
+
+
sex used to be in my poemsand now it’s back againthe dildo made of sunlightthe dildo that unrolls the sunthe camera inside you looking backtapping and blinkingpretty like a quarrythat counsels the charioton which you ride to itwhere a silver tent flies pennonsfor the tiny malletand the tiny stakethe world…
Poetry Nightly 