Dr.
H. Erico Nanist’s Tumescence,
image by Daniel Y. Harris
image by Daniel Y. Harris
The Lord Sends a
Wind
Flies
on the baby | bird blown terminally onto
the
trail. This is the life of water, triggering a
pinch
of pain within tenderest fire; this is the
wall
of confusion opening | a portal to a | world
scoured
of unreal tragedies; there being no name
for
what upholds the citadel or ground of the ever-
expanding
song of our Homeric onanist, whose staff
greets
the tide-line foaming upon these otherwise
vacant
sands; and | yet, when | all of the contained
sand-grains
have made narrow passage through the
almost-overlooked-middle,
a whale’s fluke departs us.
A Cup of Coffee
An
ambiguous I coexistent with a summer afternoon
breeze.
| Of course some | quasi-poetical contexts
can
make autobiographical trivialities seem to
be
less tiresome than | they are. Poetry can entail |
such
stuff as |
sweating through a
t-shirt not with-
standing,
especially | when your head is bent forward
slightly
and your booted ankles are crossed; for yours
is
the sorrow of a | pink-hearted and modestly-spined
seashell.
Now a | girl surfs with her | left index to
her
lips and then her | left hand twirling her longish
bangs,
as the NASA craft gives Pluto | a reading flyby.
—Nathan
Spoon
