The Other

Who to Tell Who to tell no one cares when no one cares No one takes the time to care for a monster I care for monsters But only because I am one I go in the dark house With the ghosts And the ghosts take my coat off The junkies The other man sits [...]

The retrospective sayings of the mystic become the regurgitated maxims of the pedant. The mystical experience is ineffable, by definition, and yet mystics are invariably compelled to write. What the mystic writes after the fact is not meant to be systematic, comprehensive, or even an accurate representation of his mysticism. But leave it to the [...]

Be Frank, Franco Do you smell the morning breath And farts on the MTA as we all Flutter to work? Watch baseball on weeknights? Write poems about kind Looking homely strangers? About Boners? Bombs? Do you think You’re a quarter homo like me? Do thoughts of Asian’s speaking French and Italian occupy Your thoughts? Do [...]

A Review of The Pistol Tree Poems by Peter Hughes and Simon Marsh The philosophers have only interpreted the world, in various ways. The point, however, is to change it. – Karl Marx You must be the change you want to see in the world. – Mahatma Gandhi Poets are the unacknowledged legislators of the [...]

Terracotta Lawyers Insofar as the apple never flees the shadow of its tree, I need a new image to sanctify multiplicity. To make a start, not of particulars but rather, the incidentals— outlining the propriety of uncertainty in syllogistic scree. I like counting dust bunnies while still keening from a dream, reflecting when suggestion barely [...]

Warning: mUutations are a project from my other site, . They are arbitrary interpretive readings that change the poems into something they’re not. Proceed at your own risk. Pete Winslow is a very minor Beat surrealist poet who died young and only published a few books, including Monster Cookie, which contains this short poem, “The [...]

The Blue Dress in Mother’s Closet Her blue dress is a silk train is a river, is water seeps into the cobblestone streets of my sleep, is still raining, is monsoon brocade, is winter stars stitched into puddles, is goodbye in a flooded antique room, is goodbye in a room of crystal bowls and crystal [...]