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, November 24, 2012
haibun || Sheila E. Murphy
Here's what hitnets, hesitorsion, nom de plumage, intricate. Etsy little hairdown norms
go wool against. Rubbing the loud warp woof lobelia. Les fleurs, an ever depthdom do we wheel to greater repartee. You full-on captivate. I dry the dish, the one, an other. Near temptation fathers me, spring rice blooms wither lean apart from plump nourismo. Now and then the now is late to church embroiled in tugging on two sleeves of context. Codex wars need jewelry; novels keep, apartheid won't. The dervish enervates, n'est-ce pas? Some morning we will glock amid reversion, and the noon cool cereal we'll have will seem a vastly complete protein. For now, the haberdasher will upset the front porch, full cart and all. Until we order in a manner orderly. One had planned bed rest. Now miningstarts in earnest after drop-ins at the bank. You know blue shadows when they hoist the soul right back where it started.
Uneven keel, a good clip, radio Madrid, and varying encyclicals