for Michael-Sean Lazarchuk (1946–2008)

Robert Şerban is a poet from Timisoara, Romania, the editor of the Brumar poetry editions, a publisher with frighteningly high standards for the work and the beauty of its books.

Everything’s gray and stupid
books are dying in store windows

Narlan MATOS (nar-hlahn MAH-tohs; poet, Brazil; b. 1975, Bahia) was called by Jorge Amado one of the greatest young Brazilian poets. Mr.Matos’s collection Ladies and Gentlemen: the Dawn was awarded the Jorge Amado Foundation Prize. A translator from English and Slovenian, he is also editing the complete works of Dr. Duarte, one of the mentors of the “Tropicalia” and “New Cinema” movements.

Carnivorous Saint

we dig up ancient shards
clicking cameras
among the dying cypresses
choked by Athenian smog.

yet cats continue basking
in the hazy sun
the chained goat sways in ecstasy
the Parthenon looks down from creamy heights
lichen and rust nibble the pediments
and tourist feet break the spell
of antiquity's vibrations

the grass hits
as I look at rusty orangeade caps
thinking Who needs nuclear Apollo?
thermonuclear Minerva?
Nike crashing to grand finale?

we need the anti-Christ
who is probably playing football around the corner
the sweet boy who used to be called Eros
and wants us to be happy.

bring back the carnivorous saint
whose mother is no virgin
she's Our Lady of Peace Movements
to ban the bomb and clean up the air
she'll wave her umbrella and change the world.

ah yes, when the grass hits
old worlds burn down and new worlds form
in clouds of brown monoxide morning.

Athens, Jan. 1964

One hundred years ago in the French Pyrenees, a poet wrote lyrics of extraordinarily pure feeling. His name was Francis Jammes. His joyful, however sorrowful, poems express an innocence and simplicity as natural as the song of a bird or the love of a child.

Each audience member eyelid drinks a cup full of rain till blue tinged bulge—page blur. That is where there is only appetite. Gesturing toward a separate way, enter a funny little man at the cornea point yet to be introduced, of course, buried in a blood tweed suit, we call him as named before, the final sayer. He raises his right hand high above his head as if holding an object rare and majestic, perhaps to yank at an eyelash. With eyes wide open (as yours) he breaks out into shrill song.
The Final Sayer

In this fork is an embedded list of names.
The path so to speak from which the paw
broke away from itself and became this disconnected claw.


A Fork

The labile
fugitive
claw 

its levity
atony

of keratins
pincers
in disquiet

incised
on the body

he lifts

black jacket
tiny
 

flitting
black eyes

pesky
gaunt

Pierrot
of stark
cutlery
 
vintage
tarsus

desacralized
girt

by thick
cords

I am
ingest
 
demurred
refused

to eat
tubercle
bacilli

mephitic
place

slated shy
of scope.

70TH BIRTHDAY POEM

70 years old feeling like a samurai
With a dull bladed sword singing
Into the blade of night

Somewhere beyond the horizon
Sailors buried at sea
Rise in ghostly procession

Skeletons sharing their secrets
With withered old men
Lined-up like bowling pins
Measuring them limb to limb like
A tailor sizing you up
For a perfect fit

fresh from the Cabildo!

Special to the Corpse: Ohio Poet Makes Peace With self!

Belleview High School
Instructor of English

Untitled study of a dog: Adolf Hitler (n.d.)


The Wizard makes the argument
The Wizard explains