from The Secret Brain
by Dave Brinks
THE REVOLVING AIR
gravediggers apportion their labors to greet me. a vast
supply of holy water whose eight pints turn to wine in my
veins, a ghost in splendid flower, the fuchsine of the vine
blending into fatal position, shining a light on the moon.
this was nothing a blue sky could do. and filth & pigeons
to climb my way home.
THE PRIVATE ZOO
this story has a certainty like supper. if you're going to
sleep-in through the rain, ask the fingers that feed you
for long arms. dogs have no human response to weeds
that grow out of your head but don't fall off. their point
is to swallow. or how one might imagine a conversation
like a clockwork orange without the violins.
THE MAGIC SELF
in the magic self it seems everything has meaning, but it's
not long before the chronic of logic & time disproves this
theory. today there's no disaster, just lovers vomiting blank
stares that drop the temperature in the room. making good
nasty love signals the end of this mood. afterwards, we get
back in our clothes, go buy some paint, punk, and studded
SUMMER AND ALL
I was a bathing suit in the american idiom, sitting after
a table, eating my favorite flavor, baked banana, honey
& whip cream. I wanted to make something special. this
is south louisiana, a 4 hr exit from texas, 4 lazy blocks
from big muddy hulking ships out to sea. I came to live
here as a child. it was late july. now shiny ABC's have
disappeared into my head like the rings of a tree.
THINKING IN MINIATURE
this is a poem about potting soil. one of those sunsets
that looks like the stuff that comes out of a genie lamp
after you make it shine. I feel like a spiny caterpillar
on a playground and it's beautiful inside. some of the
tiniest maps contain every minute of our lives.
WAR! || BROKEN NEWS || CRITIQUES & REVIEWS || CYBER BAG || EC CHAIR || FICCIONES
THE FOREIGN DESK || GALLERY || LETTERS || POESY || SERIALS || STAGE & SCREEN || ZOUNDS
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