Even when Death inhabits a poem, he does not own it. He is a squatter. In fact, Death owns nothing. – Todd Moore
FEATURED IN THIS ISSUE: Kell Robertson, Joe Speer, Patricia Clark Smith. Mini-Anthology of Haitian Poets. Jack Hirschman and Boadiba, editors/translators. Mini-Features: Lauren Camp, Catherine Ferguson, Damien Flores, Michael C. Ford, Howard McCord. ALSO IN THIS ISSUE: H. Marie Aragon, Hakim Continue reading the malpais review | vol. 1, no. 4
Cowboy Poet, Kell Robertson, Outside Vesuvio’s Bar, North Beach, San Francisco, 2001, Copyright: A.D. Winans I’m listening to Kell Robertson sing When You Come Down Off The Mountain. His voice sounds like his throat has been sandblasted raw, gravel over Continue reading todd moore | pure blood primal: the poetry of kell robertson
Writing poetry in america. Writing poetry in america under the sign of the gun. Writing poetry in some broken down american bar. Writing poetry while trying to drive a cab. In america. Writing poetry while working at the post office, Continue reading todd moore | blood and fate under mad stars
Falling asleep in outlaw country. Falling asleep in Boot Hill Bed and Breakfast in outlaw country, the Wyatt Earp room. Falling asleep in outlaw country with the sounds of the trains whistling down the tracks. Falling asleep in outlaw country, Continue reading todd moore | falling asleep in outlaw country
Maybe you are sitting in a bus depot waiting to catch a Greyhound to L.A. or Denver or El Paso or Seattle and you need something to read and you know you don’t want to do another four hundred pages Continue reading todd moore | into the open madness: the poetry of kell robertson
Continue reading kell robertson | the goofy goddess on the wall
