Cornfield, christ, a clueless star. An orange toad setting fires in your father's younger stomach. I love not writing. There is a spot you have spaces
SummerJohannes Göransson Tarpaulin Sky Press, 2022 ~ I think it might be too early for me to be putting words toward Johannes Göransson's Summer as I've only just finished its fourth and final section called The World and the fire as a whole is still trying to figure out which parts it still needs to set. But, I also worry some season will end, and I'll be in it and have to lie about how I moved forward. Göransson writes the under out from under. Beauty, death, the after. The after-art of living as something uncreated. If a ceiling fan falls on a trapdoor...ah, I have no then. I paint my kidnapper to look like my kidnapper, lose blue like a hand, let children make me sad, think maybe invention has always known where it's imagined itself from, and am poor but less poor for work like Summer and…
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the baby's throwing arm doesn't last two boats catch fire you get a horse a wheelchair a bone here and there in the cake
2nd installment at svjlit.com
If you read everything from bones to palms, or read nothing between two hells, or need the whole to place you in parts, you owe it to yourself to check out Lou Poster's first published work 'The Kindness of Strangers' at Schuylkill Valley Journal (svjlit.com) SVJ is doing a serialized release of the story, and the first installment is up today. ~ Lou Poster is a Native West Virginian, current resident of the poorest county in Ohio. Appalachian songwriter/singer/storyteller. Son of a third generation coal miner. Work is HERE
Summer
Johannes Göransson
Tarpaulin Sky Press, 2022
~
I think it might be too early for me to be putting words toward Johannes Göransson's Summer as I've only just finished its fourth and final section, 'The World', and the fire as a whole is still trying to figure out which parts it still needs to set. But, I also worry some season will end, and I'll be in it and have to lie about how I moved forward. Göransson writes the under out from under. Beauty, death, the after. The after-art of living as something uncreated. If a ceiling fan falls on a trapdoor...ah, I have no then. I paint my kidnapper to look like my kidnapper, lose blue like a hand, let children make me sad, think maybe invention has always known where it's imagined itself from, and am poor but less poor for work like Summer and the care it takes of the false elsewhere.
~
reflection by Barton Smock
~
book is here
mother father and their backward sunburns. movies that ache for moon. a dog no closer to the stick that we shared while in the stomach of a heartbroken horse. food poisoning as remembered by god. one of every three fish praying first for stone and then for bird. the unmarked math of your remade mouth. a cigarette in love with a nail.
house 7 the grape heavier for inventing an invisible drop of blood the mirror that carried wind
dream only of discovered things
I will not miss you. I will, however, go into different rooms and wonder why I cannot name everyone there. For a chapter I have only the middle of, a title: Mirror that carries wind. Mary Ann, I am so excited for you. Loss can decode absence all it wants, the words you have will find other words to shorten the speech you've long been saying. Ah, my insufficient silence. Missing is not a word that covers enough ground. All the love, and I wish you the luck of no luck needed.
kingsoftrain 