This is happening. The Christmas photo war has begun.
What becomes of a man who has nothing
to complain about?
Does he cease to exist
–in his own bubble?
Or, does he just retire to a life of spinning
on a ball in space
which itself revolves around
an even more silly
full of hot-air star?
“A rose is a rose is a rose.”
Gertrude Stein’s studio had many
paintings by Henri Manguin,
Pierre Bonnard, Pablo Picasso,
Paul Cézanne, Pierre-Auguste Renoir,
Honoré Daumier, Henri Matisse,
and Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec. Look,
not one Rockwell has been found there.
And, “Toasted Susie is my ice cream.”
“Like a reverie I fell into this collection of poems, vivid and strange, and I find myself returning afterwards, holding it like a dream in the morning light, studying the facets of meaning, jewel-like in my mind’s eye.” — Weodi Squid, Author of Monsters at the Kitchen Sink published by Rose Rock Press.
“Terry’s work takes you for a cab ride that starts in Oklahoma, ventures through your soul, and leaves you with fond memories of Whitman’s writing desk and the place where Kerouac threw up.” — Jason Poudrier, Author of Red Fields published by Mongrel Empire Press and In the Rabble at Our Feet, Published by Rose Rock Press.
Under a Toenail Moon is available at LULU.com
I once studied the chair and desk of Whitman
while standing behind the sectioning off rope. —Terry Gresham
Terry Gresham’s poetry is always surprising and always delightful. He works to pleasantly unsettle the audience from any expectations we might have. He says, “I try to think of the words on the page as not being the most important thing about the piece. Like a DNA or a protein molecule that has a primary structure (words) a secondary structure (words folding upon other words) and a tertiary structure (how the poem coils even further around due to its environment) I like to have the poem doing biology and somersaults. I like to have the poem doing things that it shouldn’t.
“One day, I would like to be like a song
and I want Annie Lennox to sing me.
I would love to be notable like that.”
The lines, I think, are beautiful–sweet and surprising. And what made them even more charming was the way he laughed after every one of them. – Teri McGrath
Not a great while ago, passing through the gate of dreams, I visited that region of the earth in which lies the famous City of Destruction. It interested me much to learn that by the public spirit of some of the inhabitants a railroad has recently been established between this populous and flourishing town and the Celestial City. Having a little time upon my hands, I resolved to gratify a liberal curiosity by making a trip thither. Accordingly, one fine morning after paying my bill at the hotel, and directing the porter to stow my luggage behind a coach, I took my seat in the vehicle and set out for the station-house. It was my good fortune to enjoy the company of a gentleman–one Mr. Smooth-it-away–who, though he had never actually visited the Celestial City, yet seemed as well acquainted with its laws, customs, policy, and statistics, as with those of the City of Destruction, of which he was a native townsman. Being, moreover, a director of the railroad corporation and one of its largest stockholders, he had it in his power to give me all desirable information respecting that praiseworthy enterprise.
Originally posted on Life UnMarked:
these streets welcomed me
the breaking of the dam
pressing down so
I drowned here
blinded and gasping
spilling across the pavement
seeping into the cracks
soles against concrete
this dusk bathed us
through the end of the light
a kinder darkness
and a dog with a story
melting in the floe