Reed Phares


Untitled Walk Song


the washed out corner


in the winter sun, the cars seem small,



careful now, in the polaroid light


the fogged-white window, rainflecked windflogged;

frost-hushed specks of pale-lilt morning if

there were clouds it would snow,


what a wonderful numbness


in the late morning,

to wake up and think nothing

and to do nothing

and to cut open the air

and be nothing


one day i will ache for this


But, back to the matter at hand:

can nothingness increase?


Consider Coltrane.

In a Sentimental Mood,

a saxophone and piano can bend

a morning can be nothing

but, can a morning hold a bending?


If one were to take say, a love affair,

or a yard sale,


or any other hollow happenings of the morning

in which one feels like a string unfurling.





Walking Through Prickett’s Fort in Autumn


The Fake Native American showed us his whittled punchcard

and sings a blackpowder blue, voice kettle iron

low green hills sweep out towards a sinking year

and the car smelled like last summer’s creek water


the lights go out / and language fails


the long world stretches under a red wound

hot dark, and the sweat-sheets


In a walled garden I snap my legs and cry

for my Father, toroh toroh toroh


I wait for thirteen days, eating only raw rabbits


In the blue smoke of the future a sick dog cuts grass

and I understood.


Reed Phares is from West Virginia. He has a few cats, he'd like to learn to write the way he speaks, but he'd also like to learn how to speak. He is very worried about poetry (not being good at it) and also the world (not understanding it, or anything). Anyways, he aspires to find the best whiskey sour in the southwest.