a reason to have children is that you’ll cease to remember them
–
death, a meal that doesn’t end
that is not
a feast
Donora A. Rihn and Andrew Rihn have poems at ~ isacoustic*~
for Traci Brimhall
i.
no one
in a future
life
was me
ii.
body
the inheritor
of the quick
dream
/ body asking its mother
where to begin
Jon Cone has two poems at ~ isacoustic* ~
Jon Cone
BLOOD
My mind blooms
outside the pawn
shop window.
I am struck
dumb by knives
in their morgue
-like brilliance.
All I want is good
blade, an edge.
Some cool
distance from
my life, this sleet,
this rust, my shoes
that flicker like
sour flames
at the end
at the end of
the weird alley
where blood
goes to clot.
more:
~
Adam Hughes
REUNION
Sometimes the line between friend
and familiar is inconvenient.
I hugged him and felt his willow bones
growing out of my own roots,
exiting my skin. His bloodshot
voice echoed through me
like a windchime made from discarded
amulets, broken teacups, and the teeth
of ancient birds. After he left
I lit the altar on which we offered
our second fruits to keep ourselves warm
and sang along with the flames—
a song so hideously sacred.
buy Deep Cries…
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a birth scene
played mostly
for laughs
the influence
it has
on hunger
/ mob of loss
what of this
can I take
by mouth
/ the otherless magic, the muscles of snow
onscreen, a man steps over a drugged dog
(on earth)
my mom puts her whole arm in a sock
says it fits
like lightning
I ask after your son because my son his brain has an idea of how to approach a predicted thunderstorm. how does one leave stomach alone? I thought mother was a nickname and brutality the regifted alarm clock of sex. god knows seven men and puts them on the trail of three suicidal cross-dressing refugees. sickness is the afterlife we know of. (I say
we) writing in hell about movies and socks.
