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We are here to “stare at our beautiful corpse of a poem,” and Bava generously allows us to dip a toe in the afterlife. If we are lucky, we can grab for a stronghold in the cliff and hold on.

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Now I know the light in Vienna as one sings/coming towards me/I know worn-down houses/in the gutted industrial in the decapitated/envelope/morning rages/ from your clavicle

das

The leaves/are shaken by visitations/The only verification/is shit.

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You have to be able to look your piece in the eye and tell it you aren't afraid of what internally it may represent, that you actually love it no matter what.

Laura movie still 7

The "night-world" of eternity

kryptonite

There are roach motels/Set out around almost every portal to heaven/Watch for them but do not beware, my love/For when the sweet die/The adhesive turns to honey on their feet.

LangstonHughes2

Brian Fanelli concludes his discussion on Langston Hughes.

LangstonHughes2

Brian Fanelli continues his discussion of Langston Hughes's work, Jazz, sound and Harlem.

LangstonHughes2

Poet Brian Fanelli explores Jazz, laughter and sound in Langston Hughes's work and world.

mordarling

"Vow" and "The Blue Rental" both act as visionary texts, railing against the nothingness that surrounds us and will eventually consume us.

whale of desire

"Whale of Desire" is large enough for all loves, from belief to fidelity, and each poem rings out as a hymn.

peace

Gillian Conoley’s new book of poetry seems to aim at a kind of reconciliation: with the self, with family, with lovers, with the digital world, and with larger abstractions such as death.

Death like a shadow of black silk unraveling/after an atomic blast, your arms outstretched/in the background a curtain surrenders in the wind

There is a freshly-made bed next to mine/that I don't touch/There is a hum in the room, a hymn/in the sky/That evening two animal gods stood mountaintop/and I sat below in the sunset, my body rooted.

EPITHALAMION FOR OUTLAWS: ACE HIPORST

The narrative is fragmental, and drifts like movements which possess their own immediate merits. The symphonic quality is evident. Stravinsky’s "Rite of Spring" is not a piece which moves in a deft pattern, and neither is Hartigan’s collection.