Even when Death inhabits a poem, he does not own it. He is a squatter. In fact, Death owns nothing. – Todd Moore
Fuel Spill Driving across Texas you don’t want to be alone your thoughts your grief your guilt your only passengers. It’s flat so flat and free of ends of this and that free of things to see that might relieve Continue reading Fuel Spill by Guinotte Wise
Ride the Headache Ball Working higher than the crane boom climb down to where the hookball hangs the operator knows it’s time for lunch and moves it toward you on the steel you grab the cable, step in the hook Continue reading Ride the Headache Ball by Guinotte Wise
Big Indian Blue and loud as hell had a spark advance bear trap clutch rode it on the gravel roads all dust and devil care behind and wind ahead rode it up to Charlie’s road house parked it proudly by Continue reading Big Indian by Guinotte Wise
Jazz, two Dylans, and Robert Frost When my young green mind expanded to admit Modern Jazz it must have sounded like Velcro pulled apart but I only heard the Kenton and Ahmad Jamal and MJQ and Errol Garner, it could Continue reading Jazz, two Dylans, and Robert Frost by Guinotte Wise