Aril: “an extra seed-covering, typically colored and hairy or fleshy, e.g., the red fleshy cup around a yew seed.”
A new poem in which Descartes is proven wrong, and T. Rex’s Marc Bolan appears in a dream and starts thieving.
A new poem about jockeys, ponies, and golden eggs filled with candy, and how quickly races are won when you’re drinking.
A new poem by the author of Chronic, in which Lady Sings the Blues is intoned, sung, spoken, and hollered.
An invokation of Super Mario Brothers, Buddhists, and the customers at your local Starbucks.
A new poem by the author of Green Squall and winner of the 2005 Yale Series of Younger Poets Award.
The life of a poet in New York means recognizing the important appellations and knowing when to take the (grant) money and run.
The U.S. presidential inauguration in January will be one for the ages. A hat tip to Langston Hughes.
In spite of all the reporters crawling around Alaska, Gov. Palin remains unknown to the general public. Thanks to W.H. Auden.
The presidential election continues to bring forth policy promises and attempts at soul-bearing honesty.
With primary season nearly over, the two remaining Democrats are each facing their own demons. Perhaps some poetry will be an inspiration?
Delegates, primaries, ads, and speeches, mean the campaign season is full of chaos and noise. Putting things in order—in iambic tetrameter, that is.