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, July 14, 2012
haibun || Sheila E. Murphy
I just remembered her address was Walled Lake. One recovered there
from an awareness swollen with itself. From which there seemed no peace,
except to spoil all likely sentience. Nixon was about to resign. Her couch
was a beige color, long and tidy as accounts receivable. His face on the TV
had no shine. Complex assignments presently were due for graduate school.
I was alone, between responsibilities that others had. Life ought to have
been funny. Despite holes between what I thought and felt. I am so old now,
younger than I was. The woods, even in summer, appeared gray beneath plush
leaves. Her drapes stayed open to the scenic day. I watched his face recite
what someone wrote for him. His face muscles bruised my history. At that time
I believed an education was a kind of fortress you could use to keep yourself as
safe or sane as needed. Always someone sipped preposterous amounts of fizz.
How did I become this quiet, this elated about simple things? How did I learn
the eloquence of amnesia? Romance languages brush pale lines on my forehead.
To persons half my age who rehearse remaining perfect as they are. Whom
I invite to teach me something.
Cast iron for the morning meal, a splinter from saguaro spine, small bird