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?
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.