the beach a dozen Buddhist monks in golden
Robes stepped out of three limousines
To walk their Holy One out along the dunes..."
This is not a postcard.
Not a photograph. You'll never see it like this.'
She spins toward him, then away,
her red coat a cape that would tempt a bull..."
car was floating: heat was rising from the pavement. I was alert
to the temperatures inside and out; I was the thermometer, I was
the rising red..."
must have muttered
metaphors into the mattress.
Marry me . . .
marry me again, I must have said..."
itself is not on trial. In
beguiling heat I perceive myself
a Deity and so decree; humans
need atone for nothing..."
when all the twisted paths
walked together and alone,
seemed to brighten..."
Good advice in this morning's Mesa Tribune:
to watch for the driver who flirts with the red
when making a left-hand turn. In other words,
don't be first off the mark when the light turns green.
James Cervantes and Halvard Johnson
in a hundred years a boy will dive here
and pick through food tins bearded
with seaweed, empty as hunger..."
the sky seems to reel,
that heft of fire descending, now copper,
now chartreuse, now a darkened
smear of gold."
is toilet as death is death,
so many parts of yourself
the dust of the pick-your-own pumpkin patch,
the choice ones smashed, moldering flesh slit
Id say would sound
like I was teaching you and any kind of sex you want, Ive
had it. I can do it now and still listen to the radio..."
a sea of buttocks & biceps, nearly
frolicked into exhaustion,
cools now beneath
over transistor static."
dogs set loose in the backyard
assessed and reconfigured, a panting whirl, not so much
accommodating individuals as mutating,
boinking into an ever-expanding dog-net..."
silence in various sizes
ticks into the wastebasket..."
in love with a dead man."
first truly saw stars,
dawn, sea fog receding, great oaks: this pasture
where dogs howled at the moon or anything else..."
think this is going to be a poem about death,
but it's really about being hungry all the time."
feral cats in empty ruins..."
her come to us
in stirring nakedness..."
To melt a sugar cube, she says."
map itself can be an object of desire."
she glows like a fallen galaxy."
dangle from ropes, a portrait
of useless feet..."
to the woman crying in our hotel room
earlier that morning...
BMR Authors' Books:
by Theron Montgomery
by Tania Rochelle
The View from Tamischeira
by Richard Cumyn
by Paul A. Toth
The Bestowing Sun
by Neil Grimmett
by Adrienne Eisen
Boat with Oars of Different Size
by Thom Ward
by Aldo Alvarez
Gauguin Answer Sheet
by Dennis Finnell
in the Basement
by Robert Sward
by Aaron Roy Even
A Patrimony of Fishes
by Doug Lawson
The Blue Moon Review/Blue Penny Quarterly, ISSN 1079-042x
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