Poem by Vikas K. Menon

Vikas K. Menon






they say you must abolish your self

others burn their lack with bourbon,

fall into the easy incandescence

of the night.  thy juggle their intoxication

and selves, a furious circus.

they scare off what they seek.

but you–you are here for me.

among my many selves

I keep you close to me– Read More

Exquisite Poem by Amy Gerstler


by Amy Gerstler

Why so many senseless injuries? This one’s glass teeth
knocked out. Eyes missing, or stuck open or closed.
Limbs torn away. Sawdust dribbles onto the floor
like an hourglass running out. Fingerless hands, noses
chipped or bitten off. Many are bald or burnt. Some,
we learn, are victims of torture or amateur surgery.
Do dolls invite abuse, with their dent-able heads,
those tight little painted-on or stitched-in grins?
Hurt me, big botched being, they whine in a dialect
only puritans and the frequently punished can hear.
It’s what I was born for. I know my tiny white pantaloons Read More

Poets Nick Flynn and Matthew Dickman

It’s been awhile since I shared some of my favorite poems, so here goes.  These are poems by the incredibly talented Nick Flynn from his book Some Ether (also the author of Another Bullshit Night in Suck City which was turned into the movie “Being Flynn”) and Matthew Dickman from his All-American Poem book of poetry.  Amazing shit, read on.

31P1EPJ8GDL._SY300_Nick Flynn (Some Ether)







A black river flows down the center

of each page


& on either side the banks

are wrapped in snow.  My father is ink falling


in tiny blossoms, a bottle

wrapped in a paperbag.  I want to believe

that if I get the story right


we will rise, newly formed,


that I will stand over him again

as he sleeps outside under the church halogen

only this time I will know Read More

August’s Reading List

So this month, seeing that I can’t decide and I’m a titch manic, I’m reading many books at the same time (I always do that).  I like to mix it up, one book from each area usually.  I tend to like (like crazy) factual books on mental illnesses/disorders (I’ll read one in two days), poetry books off  course, books ON poetry, books about writing, and literary journals.  So here’s what I’ve chosen for August:

Henry Miller’s Tropic of Cancer (I LOVED Tropic of Capricorn in college) OR Black Spring–haven’t decided yet. This is from TIME:

It’s impossible to outdo George Orwell’s wonderfully overstated appraisal of  Miller in 1940 —”the only imaginative prose writer of the slightest value who  has appeared among the English-speaking races in some time”—but it’s hard not to  agree. He’s the thinking man’s slacker, but his prose is a force  multiplier—lucid, honest and unhampered by neurotic self-loathing. Tropic  of Cancer was not published in the U.S. until 1961, where it set off an  obscenity trial that is still one of the great episodes in the history of free  speech. Before Kerouac, before Burroughs, Miller disputed all the imperatives of  capitalism. He stood before the temple of money and raised the flag of  happiness. You have a problem with that?
Read More

Three Poems | Narrative Magazine (Matthew Dickman)

from “Benevolence” by Matthew Dickman at Narrative; a real heart-breaker

Even as I watched my older brother

skin knee after knee, break bone after bone—

always surviving, always

being able to bite down on what

the world had given him, what he had made

of it, and still walk along the bases, the streets, the rugs

of countless therapists, still swallow

the glowing pills humming in the bottom of countless paper cups,

his arms bound to the bed by cotton straps,

the razor he once slid along his arm like a beam of light—

I couldn’t manage the smallest cut,

the most laughable bruise. When I walked out

into the backyard and held the rock in my hand

I wanted so badly not just to throw it, but to hit something and make it hurt.

via Three Poems | Narrative Magazine.

When It Was Always Dark (poem by Mark Bibbins)

The Cortland Review

This poem is so beautiful, I had to share it.


Even porch lights that made gold of the grass
are lost,
and those birds that stitched across the moon—
not birds, something

No, do not think angels.

hands over flashlights—who wants them now?
And what could shine its
way again,
so easily, through these fingers?

assembling in a cool, low place;
birches nodding against one
though there was no breeze.

However long we waited, it was
only to fill hours with waiting.
All we took with us on
our way,
all we have wept
at being unable to

Something pressed into a hand,
no beloved thing,
but sweet—
small, and hard as luck is to arrange.
Full with love—what
else could fit in its place?
Someone once said
And nothing. That

A hand on the curtain—whose—and who saw?
There is no
one to tell
of our dark animals—of how we made
from the sky
whatever light allows.


Czeslaw Milosz’s Poem on Writing

Ars Poetica?


I have always aspired to a more spacious form
that would be free from the claims of poetry or prose
and would let us understand each other without exposing
the author or reader to sublime agonies.

Read More