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 Volodymyr Bilyk at firstname.lastname@example.org for consideration...
Friday, August 17, 2012
haibun || Sheila E. Murphy
Tremolo intact, replenishing the stilted speech. To feign is to unadvertise unless. And still, remainders glom on to presumptive priors. Now what, then when? In a miniature glass case, violet hues invigorate the broth. Or breath, or signal phrase. Intuitive with white wrap to the head. Aggressive syndrome, stalwart mail chain. A cappella slumber, party-free, incipient rumblings. A protectorate of grasp. Sun queases in to shoulder depth, a point of conversation. Informal masculinity repairs the duct work openly. Discussible intentions leave the room before they enter. Her people, your people, sure people. Poplar trees out back, the broad expanse of shell space. Walking across surfaces until the motor beats its life back into what it crosses. The low cost of a pen in times like these. The figurative pining. The caress. Most syllabic openings relieve pain. Medicine consistently misses its cause. Mechanical injunctions frost the lawn of covering.
Veto weakness, soft cloth, the part of sterling we intend to show, that partly shows