Poetry Reading

Some of the best poets we read ask that we not never not ever use their voice when devouring their verse - an argument that it's best for a reader to cut their own lips along the margins of the page, gnawing like small jackhammers on internal rhythm and rhyme beating out time in order to best discover something like love

for #ds106

We are merely transient, travelers here for such short times, these turning leaves of Autumn remind us that we must pause to savor each moment, to rediscover repose, arc the eyes at an angle from which to look anew at a beautiful world forever in transition

— for #ds106

Every Poet Is a Juggler

What at first glance seems simple enough - one word after another, so how hard could it be? - turns complicated when a writer realizes not every word belongs before the previous or after the other and failure becomes another poem dropped like lightbulbs to the floor

— for #ds106

Shredded paper pictures – do your best on this Rorschach test - we're only watching to witness what it is you make — what three pieces of abandoned trees, create — then, compost the art, as fiber fill – freeze the frame in image, still

for #ds106

We close our eyes as the end of summer breeze blows by; nothing today but clear blue skies

for #ds106

What gobbledygook we took and whatnot, too so flummoxed with malarky, bamboozled by you

for #ds106

ıʄ ơŋƖყ ɛ۷ɛཞყ ɬყ℘ɛʄąƈɛ ῳɛཞɛ ą ʂɛƈཞɛɬ ℘Ɩąƈɛ ῳɧɛཞɛ ℘ơɛɱʂ ɠơ ɬơ ʂƖɛɛ℘ - ı'ɖ ℘ơıŋɬ ɬơ ɬɧɛ ʂ℘ąƈɛ ῳɧɛཞɛ ῳơཞɖʂ ཞųŋ ɖɛɛ℘

for #ds106

Running fingers along the edges of bark and roots of the forest, early morning flower petals yawn in numbers and open in sequence, prints of inhabitants paw the dirt, each track another magic trick of mathematics

for #ds106

I can't find words for poems like these anymore for there's nothing I can give you that's not infected with the politics of malice; Not deeper analytics, just sheer ballistics of incompetence, numbers from a world gone awry

for #ds106

if the moon were balloon ...

we'd be more wary of astroids and space debris, of satellites and rocket ships and tying knots so tight they'd never leak

we'd never let go of the string, perhaps, and only sing of moments lost to imagination

the mind, as space station

for #ds106