jornada del muerto
jornada del muerto (journey of the dead man)
“no one pays attention to these killings, but the secret of the world is
hidden in...
the laughing men
oh memory
childhood illusion
behind what synapse
the aroma of smoldering autumn fire
suburban side roads
softly gauzed in smoky light
children’s saturday voices
rising from yards
family raked
weekend chored to
the status...
mercy
Broken man, your fists, two blue sphinx
curled atop a frayed wool blanket
guarding what wastes beneath.
And still, that ruthless countenance
remembered from childhood…
your brute face
eyeing me...
the light whose darkness is light
sweltering August afternoon
Rene Lazare
bare foot, bare chested
in a leather smock
tied over ragged jeans
feverishly manipulates pigments
bent over an old barn’s floor
mixing tube squeezed oils
pressing and...
the myth of Paradise
ninety-nine names of God in a hat
choose what you need
throw the rest back
take the God without image
God without face
distort him to service
the cause you...
blue harp
late night hooch bar
boozed up jam…
edgy blues cat
in a grey fedora
wrap around shades
pointy shoes
sweat soaked
lime green sharkskin suit
leans into emptiness
harp mouth blowing
raw engine steam
locomotive...
s_a_v_t_o_ train
insatiable appetite
eats everything
kidneys
heartbeats
dreams
devours without end
flies under the radar
of patriotic flags
revolutionary anthems
licks mouths dry
where lipstick once gave beauty reign
leaves rictus grins
on exhausted faces
runs fat hands...
last rite
Sunday Christian radio
Jesus on every other station
the frequency of God
stero summoned
sermoned into farmland and suburbia
I avoid
content for now
with Lady Ga Ga
as I blow past
a...
liberation
the manual said
so simple now even a housewife can do it.
Fantastic, I thought.
Let her.
***
BY NEIL BROSNAN: liberation
nightscapes
nightscapes
in deepest night
long after the roads have fallen into slumber
I go out and paint them awake again
with the headlights on my green jalopy.
***
BY NEIL...
darkness
that evening you left me on the corner
moths drank every street light
a swarm of locust devoured the moon.
***
NEIL BROSNAN: darkness
a version of aversion
on account of all the bookworms in the library
I’ve decided to read at home.
***
BY NEIL BROSNAN: a version of aversion
from innocence
oh memory
childhood illusion
behind what synapse
the aroma of smoldering autumn fire
suburban side roads
softly gauzed in smoky light
children’s saturday voices
rising from yards
family raked
weekend chored to
the status...
dreamed tao of bees
raptured in bees
that do not sting
flying within their kinetic drone
circumference of apian light
I am nectar in each leg pouch
adorned with bees
that croon green ascension
floating...
