| SHE WAS A MINOR MUSE;
Four poems made after a night Of shallow debauchery. Why is Why is sex always better when you feel Like shit, not that it's any Great thrill to realize later that You put your heart in an Olive can and mailed it to Sardinia, and the rest Of your life galloped off to The front, its saber rattling in An otherwise empty scabbard of verbiage And guilt. She was a straw Muse, and danced for me as She came so slowly apart. — by Carl James Grindley |
BICYCLE PARTS by Brian Conery, Photograph by Katy Brown |
|
TUESDAY
by Holly Day I spend too much time alone. Shapes in the dark Feed my conversations, surprise me with their insight Fade into pillows and stacks of old clothes When the sun comes up. I will break every mirror in this house If I have to see my sad, old face in them one more time. I live for the mailman. He brings me letters addressed "Occupant" and "Resident," boxes full of useless junk ordered in the a.m. off the Internet samples of coins and cheap jewelry from complete sets I can receive just by signing a check and returning an order form, I dream of these complete sets of coins, rare gems, the conversations I can have with people who know about such things, people I will never meet and wouldn't want to talk to me anyway. |
|
ARISTOTLE'S "POETICS"
Sits on the porcelain mantel of the Koreatown apartment I still occupy in my mind — by J de Salvo |
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