Wednesday, April 26, 2006

This poem, from a forthcoming Pressed Wafer "Foldemzine" that I will confess I'm included in, just breaks my tiny little compressed and frigid heart. Go Johnny go!


Break lights like cigarette ash
hover in the grimy thaw.
Revelations must wait at the drawbridge
and neither new year’s sparklers
nor the rush of ambulances
can reinstate the flow.
In fire we are lost and in fire found.
We are brambles underfoot
of strange angels, cunning,
clumsy and untrustworthy.
We balk, we blink, we turn away.
Once preciousness made no sense
and there was a god in everything.
The year’s dead ringer voice
that sounds like lost luggage
tells you to scratch your phantom limb,
and you do.

— John Mulrooney

How come nobody loves poetry anymore?

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