texts that change the conscious parameters of literature, both for readers and writers. from a different angle than these, r.p. blackmur adds: 'poetry: [is] ...language so twisted and posed in a form that...it adds to the stock of available reality.' now that blogger has included the ability to reproduce fonts more accurately, alpha-numeric visual-poetry will be welcomed for consideration. formerly edited by peter ganick. send texts to matt margo at firstname.lastname@example.org for consideration...
Saturday, May 19, 2012
haibun || Sheila E. Murphy
Would you imagine I drift into overdrive, a thankless ledge? Here in the movie place, where syllables reach out to panhandlers, I keep my visor washed. As though shadows might reveal new synonyms for reckless pleasure felt without a word in sight. "Can you hear me from the 101, sweet young olympic darling?" Wanderlust means hammock envy, dontcha know?" It's feeble how we do not walk until there is a carrot at the end of various canals. Come slumber near the demitasse of urgent keepsake clasp. You call her clingy. I call her "snapped out" of resplendent frenzy. Any old sycamore will do beside her teacup full of wine. Wind socklets purge near neighbors of their curiosity. The shop sold curios, I dreamt of merging with its partial wingspan just before the war of cast aspersions. Dimsdale, provost, harsh tint, glory. Keep my vine desirably unclimbed. The tempo of the tempest in arrears, was that a mere incline? Hosts are many, shows are few. The ray of sunbeam totaled facts until accompanying engines withered into dust.
Chaparrel for chaperones, in our very midst, a mist of easterly perfume