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Apr 2019 · 435
A book called horse
Paul Apr 2019
First, a tundra in stasis;
a white-*****, emptied book
whose unmade letters sleep:
icy, furled, and blank. Then,

breath; a near audible thawing
of unbridled shapes and mute fire;
now, the bright stampede of hooves
breaking into the field. Next,

words.
a poem about the process of conceiving and writing a poem. hope you like it.
Apr 2019 · 198
acrid and black
Paul Apr 2019
coffee
acrid and black
i love you

struggle
unending
you school me

life
acrid and black
i love you
Mar 2019 · 789
Imprint
Paul Mar 2019
A weight bearing down
on the yellowed bed, in the used room
indelibly,

the way memory indelibly shapes
judgement and its content.
And by the bed, a yellow daisy

capturing sunlight, mourns
its brief and trembling time
as if its vase were an urn
and now, despite the brilliance, were ashes.
Mar 2019 · 7.4k
Motel
Paul Mar 2019
Over the bed, a ceiling fan revolves
elliptically. Yellowed walls speak
of anxieties inscribed by the lungful.
From his fingers the snaking upward blue
smoke of burning tobacco neatly describes
their spiralling tumult. She has gone back
into the world. And alone in their aftermath
he inhales as one grown distant in a moment
emptied of heroism. The sheets, worn and short,
rope round his ankles to recall a cellblock noose.
She'd done time, and for years. How she assumed
her role in the act, face to the wall, all ***, silent
and work-like. It was a thing they laughed about.
                                                                ­     He drew
deeply, and a ring of orange fire bloomed, briefly
proclaiming love remained a chance. Who
could know? Once upon a time he owned
more answers than emptinesses. A rhythmless
rock and swing of the fan beat the hot air back
onto him, the lone smoker, inhaling blankly.
The opened window, emptied of music, framed
a flawless field of sky blue nothingness
through which, into the parking lot,  its curtains
billowed like some wild tongue. And under
the window, in shadowless heat, a dog laps,
limp with thirst, at the drips that drip
from a rusty pipe.
a re-write and re-post. I've strived for meaningful enjambments and a sense of metre while attempting to sound contemporary
May 2017 · 368
Poem Without An Image
Paul May 2017
By Carrie Fountain


Just now it has come
to me again: the sudden
knowledge of everything
that remains to be done
though I worked my *** off
this week, doing things, doing
things. What is my style?
is a question I have never
asked until now, in the waiting
room at my dentist’s,
when this article in O Magazine
encouraged me so cunningly
to do so. Maybe it is not
my job to surprise you, not
anymore, says the spirit.
O.K., I say. O.K. But still,
I want one more crisp
image, just one, though I know
I don’t deserve it, I want it
to appear the way money once
or twice in my life has appeared
in my line of vision on
the street: some bill, nearly
alive, green god, its skin
giving off evergreen light,
unaccounted for and then
immediately mine, no
questions asked.
Nov 2014 · 519
Tea at the Palaz of Hoon
Paul Nov 2014
Not less because in purple I descended
The western day through what you called
The loneliest air, not less was I myself

What was the ointment sprinkled on my beard?
What were the hymns that buzzed beside my ears?
What was the sea whose tide swept through me there?

Out of my mind the golden ointment rained,
And my ears made the blowing hymns they heard.
I was myself the compass of that sea:

I was the world in which I walked, and what I saw
Or heard or felt came not but from myself;
And there I found myself more truly and more strange.
Wallace Stevens, Tea at the Palaz of Hoon first published in Harmonium (1921)
Mar 2014 · 760
if i had a hammer
Paul Mar 2014
if i had a hammer
i'd hammer in the morning
probably not in the evening
and definitely not all over this land

if i had a hammer
i'd be tools down around midday
but that's just me

— The End —