Even when Death inhabits a poem, he does not own it. He is a squatter. In fact, Death owns nothing. – Todd Moore
A few days ago I was sitting in one of the darkened booths at a local coffee house reading Elliott J. Gorn’s new book DILLINGER’S WILD RIDE when a member of the wait staff strolled by clearing tables. When he Continue reading todd moore | the dillinger convergence: three ways of dreaming the outlaw
I tried everything I could think of to get a wanted poster of John Dillinger off a kid called Keys Gunther but he wouldn’t budge. The second he showed it to me I wanted it, I wanted it so bad that I broke out in a sweat just thinking about it. Nights I’d go to bed trying to figure ways to get it away from him. Maybe he’d go for a switchblade. Maybe if I upped the ante to two switchblades that might do it. Every time I went over to his house I’d make him get it out. I never got tired of looking at it. He used to say you can look at it but you can’t touch it and all I really wanted to do was touch it, again and again. I wanted to hold it in my hand and run my fingers across Dillinger’s face for luck. Then Keys would add, this belongs to my old man and if he knew I was showing it off like this he’d kick my ass. Continue reading todd moore | the machine gun blood of the poem
geeshie wiley is singing last kind word blues on the radio while long sam trager is stabbing kid rooster near the stove loves the sloppy sound of the knife going in wants to stab the kid 13 times but loses Continue reading todd moore | geeshie wiley
Writing Dillinger involves a terrible shaking in the blood. A feeling that somehow I have been shot and that the wound is a through and through and that while everything’s ultimately going to be alright though there is a lot Continue reading todd moore | that terrible shaking in the blood
