Sister's eggshell rabbits. The hand I don't use anymore. Brother's angel emptying its stomach for the ghost of an undiscovered fish. Thunderstorm's best invisible cemetery.
Her god hides pronouns in video games about touch.
The sea writing nonsense on god's back
a child walks in the dark poems, Darren C. Demaree Small Harbor, 2021 ~ Holy with intention, Darren C. Demaree’s a child walks in the dark is a non-performative piece of displayed belief and an unbroken speaking of the telling world. Poems here are remnant doings, and each month is a faith. Demaree tells a son, tells a daughter, tells them both, and in the saying, another thing is built inside the thing built to fall. Memory has to start somewhere, myth is a myth, and the children are long. The verse here is gentle, protected by wonder and worry and wager, but it is not safe. In one breath, there is blueprint, and in that same breath, there is something unsold from the museum of cold weather that must be described correctly in order to be seen by both the young and by the architect of their forgetting. ~ reflection by Barton Smock ~ Book info is HERE
Eye, Apocalypse poems, Erik Fuhrer Spuyten Duyvil 2021 ~ These last few years have had, for me, many endings. I have lost beginnings to both second and third comings. Verse has been something I can’t see, unless placed in front of me. And of late I feel I may have overstayed, with others, our finale. But whatever witness may have passed, I have been blessed with the chance to sightsee within the without of Erik Fuhrer’s Eye, Apocalypse. I don’t know how much time any apocalypse has left, but am glad for the brave worrying that Fuhrer does over each. The missing, the coded, the unbidden. The apocalypse that can’t be in two places at once. The apocalypse with too long of a name. Prophecy itself is an erasure, and Fuhrer is a poet whose lyric narrates the longings of the foreseen and embeds repetition in a singular song of ecclesiastic mutations both soundlessly dense and locally clear. Through the affair, the adoration, the becoming, and the memorial, this work finds nest eggs in the lowercase book of revelation, allows distance to be terrified of its next self, and words the world into something said. ~ reflection by Barton Smock ~ book is HERE
Huge thanks to poet and person Benjamin Niespodziany for this chance to say some things forward and backward while faking the present at neonpajamas.com HERE
I thought learning would free me from feelings of terror. In photos of the infant me, photos are a thing of the past. It's far too easy to like a child.
I was touching people with other people and my movies were getting made. Pain drank my sons away. I remember my daughter asking god what's the hardest animal to be. Her drawings got better, and then worse. We knew what to do, but did nothing. You haven't seen anything until you've seen an angel reenact running out of ghost blood. Aliens grieve in dog years.
I can't tell if my stories start in the middle or if they're just without a beginning. The last time I heard my grandmother sing, I was at rest in a boy pretending to sleep. Footprint, footstep. The hands love both.
dear Ohio the ocean is worried about a trapdoor also about the ocean I want you to think about the number of limbs remembered by a bitemark and then our little satan using the same bowl for his food that he does for his water
kingsoftrain 