Poetry

“Poetry is the synthesis of hyacinths and biscuits.” – Carl Sandburg

Apple Tree black and white

Everything I say is a lie

All of this a lie, because you can’t remember the apple tree,
so it was never there, and I was never there, and
and I am just like my father, a liar who remembers things
that never happened, never were, in those spans of years

Diamond matches

De Terre

The birds (of paradise) are chittering
which seems insufficient
for a poem, because it does not match
the intensity—or is it pain?—

Holy Card

U.I.O.G.D.

This week I learned that every other year the Holy Ghost plants a baby seed in a married mom’s tummy. Nine months later a slit opens up underneath across the bottom and the baby slides out.

Sarah Wetzel

My Avarice is

for your cadaverous jaw and thin lips, for your meticulous fingers lighting cigarette after cigarette, for your body bone sleek and for speed

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