Even when Death inhabits a poem, he does not own it. He is a squatter. In fact, Death owns nothing. – Todd Moore
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
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