a song once
when our bellies were full
& the moon was full
at the bone eye
plucked the grass
tail slapped the water
she sang about last thursday
hiding her mouth underwater
to keep herself quiet
when trappers trapped
sheared her momma’s fur off
& left her naked
floatin round somewhere
now this beaver’s
pluckin grass like a guitar
& i’m the only human
who hears her song
the others just don’t listen:
bievers r jus aenimels
tht wil nvr chanj
It is HERE.
Finally. The waiting is over. The orca is surfaced, again.
Blood thrummed in your head. You
were eighteen and elegiac, you knew the
hidden names of the ages and your
knowledge curled in on itself,
a nautilus. You busted open your lip
on fists full of silver dollars while you
waited for the train. Boston faded deep
in the distance & you prayed hard in
the dark, terrific filth. You unfolded.
Brine of your oyster-shucked heart.
Honey ran through your teeth.
I guess he has to be interpreted?
His falling is such wonder to all air
beneath him and around, a medium
catching him up, his back bent, contorted. Continue reading Rodin “Falling Man”
This is the announcement announcing that the submissions call for KILLER WHALE JOURNAL VOL. 2 is now open.
Submit your poems (on any theme, in any form) / essays on poetics / art inspired by orcas to:
Submissions close September 1st.
VOL. 1 can be found here: http://www.scribd.com/doc/221234754/KILLER-WHALE-JOURNAL-VOL-1
arched shoulders and furrowed brow, an indication of
non-surrender to the haunting void, the terrorizing intangibility of
absolute Truth, so antagonistic to a topology of
realness, itself a paradoxical layout of vernacular change
Continue reading A Flaw, A Flake, A Vision, And A Vacuum
The seed of the dream is rooted in fear of the patriarch, manifested by the
Father. The patient recounts the Father as threatening to torture, but never
tangibly harming the dreamer. The death of the brother seems random, absurd.
Most transparent is the dreamer’s thematic inclination towards escape,
symbolized by a number of strange landscapes. Their surfaces appear
malleable: a dream world seemingly infinite
A month past Christmas, we see a flame at the airport,
a beacon distorted by fog and dawn’s steam.
It seems to flare, then hover,
in this misleading sky that no longer tells time.
If it burns downward, is the day passing.
We drive closer, still on the mainland, trapped by gravity,
hoping for a balloon that runs on hot air
to lift us from this gloom.
If there were more beacons,
the island could be a candleholder,
its rough contours a floating menorah.
The ice floes in the channel melt,
the smoke from an extinguished candle.