it feels wrong to pray in an ambulance
hear god / all the time
call for submissions {isacoustic*}
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THING:
submit no less than [3] and no more than [7] pieces (poems, prose, poetics) to: isacousticsubmissions@gmail.com
/poems can be in the body of the email or attached as PDF, doc, docx
//include a brief and non-clever bio
~
in order to be published, [3] of the poems in the submission must be selected by the editors*
*this applies only to unsolicited submissions
/all three poems will be published in one post
//postings will occur weekly or bi-weekly
~
payment for a selected submission is 15.00 (5.00 per poem)
/payment will be made within one month of the posting
//previously published and simultaneous submissions are okay
///response time is 3 days ///please inquire if that time passes without
////whether rejected or accepted for publication, there is no waiting period for submitting multiple times
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every three months, the editors will self-publish a journal…
View original post 255 more words
he knows
it should flower
but he was born
open, what
is he saying, I
can’t call
every bomb
my mother
as one might misplace
the remains
of a non
muscular
child, there is
in the spiritual ache
of a gas station
a form
reshaped
by the work
of its leaving
god
a souvenir
of man’s
absence, brain
a sick
star, my blood
covered
blood
god as the complete
thought
I shared
with death…
skull
short
for squirrel
and poem looked to me like the eyesight that stayed behind. claw and wing were the oars of my father’s blank craft. every boy in Ohio was a girl in a bookstore caring for the latest creature of a flat god. sadness hadn’t yet moved on from its stick figures and mothers were still blowing into perfectly round balloons. pale dog drank from a paint can. color could see, and see only, the future. a pinkness left my brother for the wrong kind of milk. sister had been hugging those angels
couldn’t bend their arms. zero
(that wizard
of the non
event)
was buying up land.
her eyes
loot
the imagination
