And by god the cool billow blustering against my face- a manic grin roaring odd half-remembered lines from searing electric blues distorting my speakers.
Great rumbling huffs vibrate my sunburnt arms on the steering wheel locked between hands- careering across the old cracked road. A speed fiend chewing miles of black lines on great desolate lands getting my kicks and delightful freedom.
O angel filled brain of mad ramblings and awful delights on highways endless in this desert filled continent. What love I have of life and me and you and all- in frantic happy speed hollers with lonesome singing radio friends in midday sunlight.
what is repeated/ as a tundra
erased men’s half lifts/ twice let
leaven castaway/ Mars cologne
one grain of quinoa
lost among the backs
of plastic chairs
My good friend Micah Towery is now on a road trip to do reading of his first poetry book, Whale of Desire. This is a good interview about his work.
Thrown Over the Loving Board
Thrown over in loving thought
a wife encounters pain through a patchwork of odd parties.
A Cretan is a labyrinth of two part shades and owes the sea shirts.
The same arm stripped a quilt on blended hues.
Only sense of weight can sensation explain.
When a child circumstance befalls reality
settle by crawling the sweep. Previous stepmothers go
dragging at 2 in the afternoon on the longest day, dread
hemisphere help. Undressing with the slow killing of bitter sighs,
dismally calculating 16 aching backs light as the rattling coach
gay all over the house. Mother, beseeching the slipper,
condemns a great deal of subsequent falls.
Nightmare is a dozen half-steeped eyes in the outer dark,
an instant shock but supernatural.
Hands are placed over the nameless phantom
seated on ages of frozen fears. Not daring to drag away
one inch, I knew a gliding shudder.
In the morning I lost the confounding hour
puzzled with awful supernatual experience.
The pagan arm at length sobered, unlocking the clasp of death.
I strove to rouse a snore in a horse neck
by slightly scratching the tomahawk, the pretty pickle, and the board.
art by Paperworker
No precision is found in comfort
Straight lines eventually become circular if given time
Mirrors reveal the mind in action
As icons resonate or repel
Reality is a world of graceful and gruesome
And nothing is completely free of contradictions
No one maps the edges of either / or
But everyone knows they exist
Every dream is a ship sailing past the horizon
Look to fairy tales for cryptic personages
In the forest, every traffic sign is a new beginning
And birds eat bread crumbs that once were white pebbles
Christina Murphy’s poetry appears in a range of journals and anthologies, including, most recently the journals Chicago Literati and Pank and the anthology Let the Sea Find Its Edges edited by the distinguished Australian poet, Michael Fitzgerald-Clarke.
art by Collage al Infinito by Trasvorder
Writing Prompts -
New page consolidates all my prompts into one index.
This is my first attempt at a poem for the Maximo Poems project (a collaboration headed up by Christopher Shaefer and Samuel Stein). I don’t want to spoil the fun, so I’ll just say the basic idea is to write poems to be viewed alongside images from a 1940s pulp comic book. I’m looking for feedback on this, so let me know what you think. (Note: Xanthus is a reference to the Iliad.)
The Water Traveled Uphill
into dark noise
until my resurrection table
and someone took aim
Meanwhile there I was
next to your van
defy the air
hungry for more
see Venusian shadows
on their frying pans
Phases of light may incrust the walls of open spaces. Vugs may gleam, a glow occupying gash joints. — Clark Coolidge
of forward motion
make a suit
of rust cloud eucalyptus
which a spiral
Source Text: Fluency by Rae Armantrout
Update to submission page. Added,
Send uutku, not haiku.