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...
Thursday, October 25, 2012
haibun || Sheila E. Murphy
If and springlight fortunes toward divinity, autumnal anyold revokes the penitence
left from fatherland qua motherlimber's overcast tall sightline. Yes to
ratifying flagrant fouls. Each sentence turns to hovel or some sprawl of a
container. "Free of warning. No after effect. No blisters. No slickness."
Hire this man, this claw, this vegetation. Just out of ICU, still breathful
luminary. One listens, one lists, one capsizes under the weight of better
eighteen-wheeled assumptions. Yonder forecast breathes a sight offorenoon,
pondered over, in the spirit of identified injunctions. Frames and flickers
of a hot hewn space warming the house as some hypothesized derivatives
expand portfolios. Was there a husband? Were there beasts or merely burden?"
Was a franking privilege in the mix? I tell you what to table, and you sing to me
from zones of the viola clef in tandem with a spouse allegedly a replacement,
fresh from Eastern Europe to ensure no inbred daughter, son or other. Come hither,
quoth the chief. And no one came. The phone call means the same thing as maternity.
Replete with every overdose of cloud available to planets known by heart,
beyond the scope of hearth.
Starlit period piece, a missive filled with exclamation point (by point)