Neil Brosnan

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...

the manual said so simple now even a housewife can do it. Fantastic, I thought. Let her.  *** BY NEIL BROSNAN: liberation

swirling banner wind whipped color coded a field of stars a row of stripes remembering when freedom found a country to plant its perfect flag upon made a promise we pledge with our hearts to...

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...

Mao attaining... (to buddhahood) Mao you Chairman Buddha now fat cat china cool Tao, your zen red book Great leap forward bone to throw the masses off… seeking you in bullett...

after a final sip the master crushed his favorite cup bid each honored guest farewell retreated to the garden to rend from flesh undying essence   sever the shadow of the moon...

thrumming chit-chit sprinklers hum mistaken for operatic crickets trilling lazy resort air as wrinkled splayed foot reptiles bow iguana heads like regal buddhists slowly roaming nirvana crossing thached pagodas unconscious tourists...

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...

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...

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...

bum feet street-beat wise sunk in banged up shoes previously dumpster swiped lean hobo soled holed haloed covered in foot funk sock stink grime   no blue suede shoes snappy tassel loafers…   gamy high-top sneakers here retro Corso’s weary worn down creased re-knotted raced in hiked trod...

lavender leashed dog festooned in a yellow slicker overly wrapped in man little rubber booties yukked with mud rhinestone collared Oh! how I wish you would bury the bones from that...

it’s difficult to know exactly how many of them are gone but the percentage is high   not the one’s who’ve lost their way the fallen down, mis-directed temporarily out...