Skip to main content

Ricky Garni :: Three poems


METAMORPHOSIS


It’s funny, when I was little, I never looked at my phone 
to see if someone had written me a letter that I could not 
toss into a roaring fire



WRITING DESK


The dictionary is really just a tree with leaves that fall to the ground. I like to pick them up 
and make them into funny shapes. Once a year I collect them all and put them into a basket 
and burn them so that they might grow again. But never in Fall. Never in Fall.


AIRBORNE


I dreamt I was walking on a sidewalk behind an orchestra single file on their way to lunch.
I was the 111th person in line. Which made me think I was really thinking about war rather than music. Or perhaps symmetry and food. Of perhaps that we float in the air in a melody at night.




Ricky Garni grew up in Miami and Maine. He works as a graphic designer by day and writes music by night. COO, a tiny collection of short prose printed on college lined paper with found materials such as coins, stamps, was recently released by Bitterzoet Press.

Popular posts from this blog

submissions :: where is the river

Up to six poems in a single .doc file with author biography and photo to kieferjdlogan@gmail.com

All rights revert to the author/s upon publication.

Klara du Plessis :: Three poems

Seeing is forgetting the name of the thing seen
The flower has been dying
silently beside me for days now.
Softly unburdening itself.
If I were to touch it ever so lightly
all the petals would be upset
and topple like the last bit of drink
in my mug all over the papers
on my desk. This slightly generic
image happens to me
on a Sunday morning, gently,
a homage to days taken off
in the past, the cotton shirt stuck
over my head in the act of pealing
it from my skin. Fetching
is a synonym for beauty.
Driving over to the pick-up point
to fetch an instant of attraction.
Becoming is also a synonym
for beauty. To burgeon,
to longingly cling to the act
of a future self. As syntax erodes
around you


East Plateau, Montreal
December 31, 2016

When last was cornucopia
a sign of decadence?
Domesticated horny,
baskets brimming, divers
reclining legumes
lisping along that rattan lip,
the most lethargic still
lifes in existence. I walk
across the Christmas cake
ganache pedestrian walkway
whittling at a po…

issue three :: January/February 2018