where is the river :: a poetry experiment

Laura Walker :: Four poems Kathleen Hellen :: Two poems Aiden Garabed Farrell :: Three poems Thomas Pescatore :: Five poems James Owens :: Eurydice: Five Propositions

None. Blue seashells over my eyes I call them coins           leave them under the gravestones that like the old man's teeth                                              rot in long lines lisping out old vague drunken songs I don't wish to recall           whatever words were written in our past I am not connected to the tears that are escaping                    from these shells                                        I want to become the ridges become the gradients of color on the outside I no longer wish to pay for living with my sight Vacant. conch shell thunder in my ear hanging from a headphone wire the empty soundless waves the coiled marks in the ...

forty trees blur in the train window. make a perfect green sheet of green shadows between the leaves. every once in a while a house. a trace of thinking but not what thought. it can’t be told what is moving and what is not. it can’t be told what is in the houses and what is not. but somehow they are connected before him. so he cannot say what he is and nothing can be said about saying. a thing is making a difference.   this is to say it is and is no longer. a woman sat somewhere nearby. he doesn’t know what he is to her. he cannot say what he is. maybe he is what he is to her or maybe he should be. billboards above a highway change every so often and are seen every so often. a roar of cars eroding asphalt in small ways. i-95 banding gray through the landscape. reparations are too intentional to last. he thinks he will always be what he is now and somehow not though, on the same days. trains quieten as their iterations...

the mask, the vipers beautiful “… she's not deadly. She's beautiful and she's laughing." Hélène Cixous look at her straight, and give her back her pleasures, organs        territories of the body three not really       two + one and none appendages   her selves the dreadful guardian            coraling invasion     the pregnant sea assaulted illuminated border —after Blake, Plate 39 o, rose only when you fall you see him fat, still hungry, ravishing the leaf his muscled being contracting and relaxing arising from the crimson petals erect the bud his bed o, rose bending to the thorn clinging to the stem Kathleen Hellen is the author of The Only Country was the Color of My Skin , the award-winning collection Umberto’s Night , and two chapbooks, The Girl Who Loved Mothra and Pentimento . Featured on Poetry Daily and Verse Daily...

psalm 101 when i close my eyes i hear two birds and three underground things. nothing perfect when you look at us do not look toward our meat or hands : we swell           and jut : we unravel just before snow. i go nicked and wild, i look toward ceilings and dream of falling. nothing clings to me, nothing sings. to me. psalm 3 the ants have increased.                       thick black wobbly lines, stove to cabinet to floor when i sleep i dream the ten thousand dreams, circle of cheekbone and teeth : i am not afraid of the finer bones of the human head, nor the dentist’s troubadour drill faces    broken    tiles psalm 99 you are a foggy pillar, a smokestack of grass, a turning away of red and need and if we break and look up we see the cloudy...

          Georgics IV: 295-314 1. The first arbitration is a narrow roof. The fourth increases pressure on the walls. The square of the diameter of the hole is one times the window plus the outside minus one. 2. Two arches sometimes rudder the wing mantle. The nostrils and mouth breathe. This is necessary. 3. He talked a lot of loosening the skin and meat. I am in jail between the ribs. Leaving the river bank illustrates that cassia and thyme have recently broken, due to wind noise washing over water plants. 4. Beam and beam, in addition to softening the bones. Oddly, the opinion that human dignity is miraculously born on the skin will be discovered –  nor is it the office of the priest's feet, in the first place. 5. In some games, there are all the words, like wings. At the same time, there are not many skills in the air. James Owens's most recent book is Mortalia (FutureCycle Press, 2015). His poems and translation...