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Ricky Garni :: Three poems


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


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.


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.

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about :: where is the river

where is the river :: a poetry experiment is a bi-monthly poetry journal open to a variety of aesthetics, forms and experiences, with a preference towards showcasing work by emerging writers. There is no single path, nor any single way. Founded in September 2017. Edited by Kiefer JD Logan.