limberlostpress.com

poemguy.blogspot.com

poem guy: Sight Unseen

http://poemguy.blogspot.com/2007/03/sight-unseen.html

Tuesday, March 27, 2007. Beneath the swing set she fed. Her little brother a toadstool. Not to be saved by the reflection in her patent. Not to be caught up by the angels. Flapping on a neighbor's clothesline,. Not to be recollected through the green lense. Of a Kool-Aid pitcher,. Carried by a mother long dead,. She denied her innocence then and there. O bloody cut healed then picked then healed then picked,. O storms who drive their winds harder in the night,. Take her sight unseen,. Orphan that she is,.

poemguy.blogspot.com

poem guy: May 2007

http://poemguy.blogspot.com/2007_05_01_archive.html

Tuesday, May 1, 2007. Ariana Writes Mary Oliver. That cottonwood grove full of fawns, some curled in the high. Grass, tawny circles with white spots in a funnel. Of sleep and vulnerability, some giving the lie. To pathos in their efforts to crawl for shelter; that tunnel. Under my dreams where fear always waits to turn. The mundane to the terrible- these form my constant sense. Of departure. Even in the first person vortex, the churn. Where memories keep reinventing themselves, I tense. Oh, how many mirr...

poemguy.blogspot.com

poem guy: Before the Gander

http://poemguy.blogspot.com/2007/03/before-gander.html

Wednesday, March 7, 2007. I didn't wake up with a large pod by my bed. On that road to Damascus, I didn't spot a UFO,. But a somehow pleasant hum fills me, as though. Life weren't all that bad after all, as though dead. Birds hadn't accumulated under my windows. Or. Am I just imagining this interlude from these, of late,. Patriotic mites scribbling on the blank slate. Of my sleep, conducting their erotic wars. In my dried up snot and tears. Big and happy,. I’m a vegetable cultivated by a commander.

poemguy.blogspot.com

poem guy

http://poemguy.blogspot.com/2007/05/ariana-writes-mary-oliver-that.html

Tuesday, May 1, 2007. Ariana Writes Mary Oliver. That cottonwood grove full of fawns, some curled in the high. Grass, tawny circles with white spots in a funnel. Of sleep and vulnerability, some giving the lie. To pathos in their efforts to crawl for shelter; that tunnel. Under my dreams where fear always waits to turn. The mundane to the terrible- these form my constant sense. Of departure. Even in the first person vortex, the churn. Where memories keep reinventing themselves, I tense. Oh, how many mirr...

poemguy.blogspot.com

poem guy: A Separate Life

http://poemguy.blogspot.com/2007/04/separate-life.html

Tuesday, April 10, 2007. You're not here,. Not in the sky. Nor ground nor water,. Not even the fire. So what do I do? I hold the cat instead of you. I hold this black ball of a cat,. Which, at the moment, doesn't. Particularly want to be held. There's something in this cat. That reminds me of you-. Not in its heat nor gaze nor touch,. Soft as that might be,. But more its manner. Of living a separate life. Next to the one that I have. Though the river is. And the fly that drinks. That shapes the stone.

poemguy.blogspot.com

poem guy: Mercury

http://poemguy.blogspot.com/2007/04/mercury.html

Thursday, April 26, 2007. These fish that surround me like icons. On the blue battlements,. They are a risk I have never been willing to take. Gorgeous feathers all look alike to the Jamaican girl there,. Carrying a list from her auntie. Into a northern climate. Don’t you cry. One jar of Katydids. Two large spiders (male and female). Go to sleep you little baby. As a child, I carried fillings of mercury around inside of my head. Mother would call and call, but I could only hear the train in my ears,.

poemguy.blogspot.com

poem guy: April 2007

http://poemguy.blogspot.com/2007_04_01_archive.html

Thursday, April 26, 2007. These fish that surround me like icons. On the blue battlements,. They are a risk I have never been willing to take. Gorgeous feathers all look alike to the Jamaican girl there,. Carrying a list from her auntie. Into a northern climate. Don’t you cry. One jar of Katydids. Two large spiders (male and female). Go to sleep you little baby. As a child, I carried fillings of mercury around inside of my head. Mother would call and call, but I could only hear the train in my ears,.

picturesthatgotsmall.blogspot.com

I Am Big. It's the Pictures That Got Small: August 2005

http://picturesthatgotsmall.blogspot.com/2005_08_01_archive.html

I Am Big. It's the Pictures That Got Small. For those wonderful people out there in the dark. Ready to Head North and Katrina. Also heard today from my nephew, who'll be watching the game in his dorm room in Spokane- he's off to a very good start at Gonzaga- though he's a little blue that he can't join his father and cousin and uncle for the big game. Posted by jim @ 9:09 PM. Obligatory Comment on M.F.A. Programs. I've written articles in the AWP Chronicle. And Poets and Writers. Posted by jim @ 4:32 PM.

picturesthatgotsmall.blogspot.com

I Am Big. It's the Pictures That Got Small: January 2006

http://picturesthatgotsmall.blogspot.com/2006_01_01_archive.html

I Am Big. It's the Pictures That Got Small. For those wonderful people out there in the dark. Amram Gig and More Gigs. Last Friday evening, on Sanibel at BIG Arts, I had the wonderful opportunity of performing with David Amram. Bad ass French horn player and collaborator with Jack Kerouac. I got to read a selection from On the Road. On the Roof of America," plus a selection from my Matthew Barney Suite. Me, with David on keyboard. Also, on the program was Sanibel poet, Bill Highsmith:. The Broncos just d...

picturesthatgotsmall.blogspot.com

I Am Big. It's the Pictures That Got Small: October 2005

http://picturesthatgotsmall.blogspot.com/2005_10_01_archive.html

I Am Big. It's the Pictures That Got Small. For those wonderful people out there in the dark. Sorry, a little reprieve from all things Bronco and poetry. As if her departure would free her to become a Fox News Analyst, letting her spit venom at her former employee; the Times. And Miller deserve each other). Posted by jim @ 12:52 PM. National Book Award Finalists. There's something irrevocably wrong with the entire literary scene in the United States. She's pound for pound the best writer we have. Of any ...