Neil Brosnan

next to my house in a towering maple’s highest crook I’ve wedged an empty soup can open side angled up with a string attached to its bottom end tautly...

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...

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...

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...

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...

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...

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...

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

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...