Category: Uncategorized
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What would become possible if we lingered atthe threshold of arrival together? What does itmean to arrive? You palpate the inside fromthe outside. Entering me, you become thebeloved stranger of my internal community.Stay here, stay–impossibly long. What does itmean for you to take your turn as teacher inthe little red…
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TTTorpid tongues full lap Lethe lake,Which brandishes silver strings fateShorn and evening. The rememoryTTTable weeping. Tilt round roomShadows spin. —Don’t I know you?If ever anyone I did.TTTelamachus lusted lungrily, leechingLechers told. Watered his bronzeTouch.TTTorn rip river parts wet worryTower rising, and the AbyssAbates. She weet and gnashedTeeth.ThereforeThere wereTwo, at the…
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— from COMA (Community Mausoleum) Read here — Thom Eichelberger-Young is an artist and editor living in Buffalo.
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— from Plat–published by Archway Editions Buy it here — Lindsey Webb is the author of Plat (Archway Editions), a New York Times best poetry book of 2024, and the chapbooks Perfumer’s Organ (above/ground) and House (Ghost Proposal). Her writing has appeared in BOMB, Chicago Review, Denver Quarterly, and Lana Turner, among others. She is an editor at Thirdhand Books.
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— from RESOURCES–a project of Blue Bag Press Read more here — Jimin Seo is the author of OSSIA, winner of The Changes Book Prize judged by Louise Glück, and the forthcoming A-1982. He is the recipient of the Poetry Society of America’s Norma Farber First Book Award selected by…
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How did you double your testosterone?Crows attack my body while I sleep.There’s polished hardwood flooring in my heart.I have never seen a basketball.I live in an old, sunken man.All that weather in my carcass.Where do bees go when they die?Old Deer Goddess, Alabama.I was trapped inside the mesmer’s putrid icicle…I…
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Just as a steam engine does not function without water and coal, and the motor of an automobile stops when short of gasoline, the poet, in order to furnish poetry, must be fed regularly. It is food that gives the poet strength and heat. The first thing a poet does…
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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…
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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…
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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…
Poetry Nightly 