First, there is only a sense of wonder.Simple answers tossed up like dice; who, what, and how lying somewherein the sparkling flotsam of the senses.Their fragments mix with the metal and glass. Vision rises like a radiant blister.The glamorous flash of exploding flowers,gold, pink, and blue, a celebrity’s welcome.Sound will have to be added later,…
Tag: Poem
Op Techs
Even our shoes muffled, we drift in herds down their streets, bodies flapping cloths of liquid blues and greens. We sink to feeding. Our voices slice the air above slabbed bread or meat, accustomed sights. We rejoice like gardeners in pride of pruning, in snips and rearranging, success and failure fenced by useless bones and…
Pronouns for My Sister
We—the plural “we”—we wonder what God was thinking, when He made it so that we don’t feel the cut until we see it, open, black, and emptying our entire volume of blood on the ground. How our conjoinment ends, that is another question altogether. The surgeon—God the surgeon, or Gautama Buddha, if you prefer, the…
Words
Words don’t listenWords don’t talkDon’t do nothingYou write them downThey just kind of sit there Noam GR is a twenty year old well-mannered young lad who enjoys walking that fine line between walking a fine line and not.
Like That
When I first thought of my own death,I had no poems to put it in.Just me and the bed tucked under a cold ceiling that pulled away into black mouths. Years later,I imagined someone’s hands on my hips, my breasts. That scaredme in a different way. The ceiling paused and watched, the bed tensedunder me….
The High Fall
I vault, somersault and plunge, an anchor,into the wetness that tastes like mint. The back slap knocks my breath. My gasp obliges the lifeguard to yell at me once, as if I could catch enough air to answer. When I was drowning at Adventure Island in the wave pool deep end, I didn’t know how…
Broadsheet
Such a nice boyIn flat sixteenDecent honest Even pleasant Go figure whyHe shot them deadWife and childrenAnd best friend For an inflatable dollFound in the closetFull of love Canadian author Luigi Monteferrante recently morphed into a singer/songwriter: www.myspace.com/mcmontylive. Previous prose/poems published in Chicago Quarterly Review, Happy, Yellow Mama, Word Slaw. First novel, At the Hearth…
Dream IV: Forgotten
The others tell their dreams at breakfast,luring wakefulness with coffee, buttered bread.But all day, something hoversjust beyond sight – you startat a touch on the shoulder, a tap at the door. At the park, at lunchtime, you hear schoolgirls whisper gravely to each other: You dreamedyou were falling? You know,you die if you don’t wake…
Giving Up Isaac
God once said to me,Give me your Isaacor whatever most precious:your mother’s amethyst,a pot of plastic peonies from your first winter lover,or your one functioning kidneywith overworked nephrons,I defied Him.And for thatI live in a no-frill no-hot water flaton East Houston and Thirdamong drug peddlersand dirty pigeons,who squander sidewalk space.Share quarters with a drag queenwho…
Akela
had us in her nesting boxone evening every week creosote wood haven in a rustic islandoff The Ridgeway she had us filed in sixeshalf dozens in green plumagewool and skullcaps slippingover brylcreem short back and sides arms stitched with badges this weekday evening goddesshad us raising two stiff fingerstilted like pistol barrels at our heads…