Even when Death inhabits a poem, he does not own it. He is a squatter. In fact, Death owns nothing. – Todd Moore
A Vic Morrow Morning He sniffs chilled shadows in a corner of a humid Hollywood trailer. Semen spores, juices of women, Chesterfield cigarette smoke, gusts of whiskey, all pulse. Gray boulders, seismic yolk-filled mountains of daylight, shift behind black clouds Continue reading A Vic Morrow Morning by Ron Androla
APRIL POETRY Modern poetry has let Amerika down. Modern poetry has been complicit in the proposed failure of Amerika as a free society. Poetry is ineffective as it strives for selfless truth. No fucking way. Poetry becomes egocentric. Poetry wants Continue reading April Poetry by Ron Androla
Warm Civilization The warmth smells like soft pickles. Soft pickles curl into amphibious skin tubes. Softened in old algae brine, glistening out of a fat jar like raw cock soaked in diamond-mirror paint, deep into half-shadow, hot water, the feel Continue reading Warm Civilization by Ron Androla