Time won’t be poor forever:
the child of a former smoker
makes
for frog
a cup
of her hands
no matter
that no
frog comes
nor frog
like it
Moods for neurology:
snake that can fetch a bone can mourn lightning
As time moonlights as indoctrination’s sole souvenir, hunger and sleep have again been separated by death. Let us say a movie was for years being made about my church. I did nothing. I sat with my mother between bathtubs and faded in and out of child. And children. Both needing the before of that first bear.
While counting the same sheep, one of us will die. It’s okay. One baby eats another baby’s message to god. I still don’t know how to write. Babies are like that everywhere. Dad had this tattoo I couldn’t see of a simple fish and that’s why your mom not really but maybe taught herself how to keep her eyes open underwater. My simple is not your simple. I fell asleep once on a lost arm and I hear it sometimes in piano music. We’ve all been old.
Moods for the outgoing:
Poverty’s extra owl.
This painting
not called
Jesus
and his last
birthmark.
A broken
his and hers
umbrella.
Two birds, two stones.
A god whose parents meet.
Brian Glaser has published two books of poems, The Sacred Heart and All the Hills. He has published many essays on poetry and poetics and he is an associate professor of English at Chapman University in Orange, California.
*
DIFFICULT JOY
1.
someone’s a wren
tugging at the sun;
the fire’s throat
on the last lectern—
added to them
just in time
—night newborn,
you will say maybe—
2.
the spirit of a magnet
against the spirit
of the rain—
irrational as a number
in the garden—
your second beard,
the literal meaning
of the four
memories at once—
3.
what the leafless trees add
is nothing
to the tally of whiteness—
her genius
harasses like the wind;
death’s creek—
a broken doorbell—
4.
darkroom of a deacon—
the exultant slide to the corner
of the pitch—
5.
dark energy,
a mass,—
Cherry Garcia—
save me some,
I will…
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~
former contributor Adeeba Shahid Talukder has a new book, SHAHR-E-JAANAAN: THE CITY OF THE BELOVED, available from Tupelo Press at the link below:
https://www.tupelopress.org/product/city-of-the-beloved/
work in {isacoustic*}
http://isacoustic.com/2019/10/25/person-adeeba-shahid-talukder-three-poems/
on Adeeba Shahid Talukder’s What Is Not Beautiful:
https://isacoustic.com/2018/06/21/what-is-not-beautiful-poems-adeeba-shahid-talukder/
~
check out former contributor Corey Mesler in conversation with Memphis Flyer about his new book Camel’s Bastard Son:
work in {isacoustic*}
~
former contributor David Spicer is over at the Hekate publishing blog speaking on things in the foreground of his new collection Waiting for the Needle Rain:
https://hekatepublishing.com/blog/2020/1/19/david-spicer
work in {isacoustic*}
http://isacoustic.com/2019/08/15/person-david-spicer-two-poems/
~
recent contributor Julia Gerhardt has a poem at The Beatnik Cowboy, here:
work in {isacoustic*}:
http://isacoustic.com/2020/02/24/person-julia-gerhardt-two-poems/
~
former contributor Kelli Allen has some killer work at SoftBlow, here: http://www.softblow.org/kelliallen.html
work in {isacoustic*}
on Kelli Allen’s Banjo’s Inside Coyote:
http://isacoustic.com/2019/05/30/banjos-inside-coyote-poems-kelli-allen/
~
former…
View original post 19 more words
Jesse Wolfe is a professor of English at California State University, Stanislaus. He is the author of Bloomsbury, Modernism, and the Reinvention of Intimacy (Cambridge UP, 2011) and the recipient of an award from the National Endowment for the Humanities. Wolfe is the winner of the Hill-Müller Poetry and August Derleth Poetry Contests, and his work has been published in New Millennium Writings, Penumbra, Red River Review, River Poets Journal, Henniker Review, Shanti, and elsewhere.
/
Bunyanshack
A spiral of pigeons rose from the roof.
(The scaffolding had been removed;
the lumberjack statue stood, complete.)
In the parking lot, Arnie said
he used to ignore Beethoven’s first three,
but now, they glide straight out of late Mozart.
This discovery, Arnie, was new
twenty years ago. Now it’s a commercial
for someone you’d like to think is still you.
Barbara smoked, leaning against the truck.
We…
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A poem for every ghost I am dead to:
god has grown your teeth in blank fruit
