Empty all but pulse and blood from who you are and hope to be. Let drum, whose primal name is heartbeat, prime your pulse. Then walk. "How to Dance" first appeared in a collection entitled Dazed Part of Light, by Lee Robison.
When we speak how else break banality to seek why and how the lofted stars are and are not ours. Where else stand naked, hand in awkward hand to know the who of thinking of— the make of making love? How else know the loss when flowers blow or how the now and here is … Continue reading Why Poetry
The Last Lost River rises from waning glaciers, snowmelt, and springs in the Deception Mountains of Montana and drops precipitously and swiftly, with an anger and fury that only the most avid fishermen dare challenge, into the valley that shares its name. There it slowly changes character becoming first a rugged swift stream. Then, just … Continue reading She is that Gullible or the Story of a River
She’s no mealymouth art, that damned mother of wordbirth— nothing fickle about that old tart. Honest as the odor of earth true as you in all your affairs, she is nothing—only your worth. How you carry her loamy dares to amend the alter altar you’ve built of your damaged despair will tell only the soily … Continue reading For Student Poet Dreaming of Inspiration
His flute was capable of other wonderful sounds, even whole orchestras of lovely sound. But whatever the sheet music told him and wand-waver orchestrated, Ole Clive always managed to make sure C6-very-sharp was one of the sounds his flute managed to tweet.
As per Assignment: A Compositional Analysis in Three Sentences First, you will notice the white of the white man’s body and its curve that is part of the spiral of their violent encounter, a round of violence repeated in the ring of men who are not as men might be, but as these men are, … Continue reading George Bellows’ “Both Members of This Club (1909)”
“Saloon was a fancy name for the place. Saloon had associations by etymology that suggested class. This was not a class place. The squeak-hinged door had squeaked the same tune for forty years—opening-to-closing, six days a week. (Closed Sundays, except for select parties and football games.) A twenty-four inch, dust-dimmed TV hung from the ceiling … Continue reading How Delmare Wrote his Next
Forgive me, eyes, I’ve scorned the dusky mesas, salmon and orange, miles from anywhere but sky. Forgive me, ears, I’ve shunned that sky closing in, chuckling with thunder and tittering half the night like a crazed old shaman who scatters vermilion and pollen among pottery and whiskey bottle shards in the rocks in the hills. … Continue reading On Leaving New Mexico for Civilization
Like imprinted ducklings— they follow her swagger across campus— these poetry undergrads Prepared in response to the Ragtag Community daily prompt: sequacious
Long walk, looking for the muse Home at last! “Take your shoes off!” She is mopping floors. In response to the RDP word prompt fungible