Even when Death inhabits a poem, he does not own it. He is a squatter. In fact, Death owns nothing. – Todd Moore
THERE WAS THIS RAT-HAVEN I LIVED IN, CALLED A cold-water flat. No closet of any kind not a shelf but in the kitchen. You took Your own roll of ass-wipe to the hall-way john—which had a lock on the door Continue reading There was this rat-heaven I lived in, called by Judson Crews
Judson Crews This guarded epiphany that grabbed me In my several senses — it was not as if your bare ass where hanging out Like a spice – cabinet display. Some of saffron — rind scrapings of bitter Lemon. A Continue reading This guarded epiphany that grabbed me by Judson Crews
MANY ISLANDS I never said that summer was a sword I never said that all the soldiers would be dead The moon rises in summer as in winter no bayonet yet has spiked it for long Oh our season, our Continue reading judson crews | six poems | 1917 – May 17, 2010