Doug Anderson: I am always in love
I am always in love because that is what we are here to do. It feels like dyspepsia when it can’t find its object or its object is abstract. It … Continue reading
Doug Anderson: I don’t know what a self is
I don’t know what a self is maybe it’s all the fear and hurt collected in a life, a shield of scar-tissue where, beneath, the true heart lies, destitute, held … Continue reading
Doug Anderson: The Bone Song
The Russian bone connected to the vote scam bone, the vote scam bone connected to the wingnut ignoramus bone the wing nut ignoramus bone connected to the Nazi bone, the … Continue reading
Sam Hamill: Three Poems
Septuagenarian Sitting alone in late summer twilight sipping cold sake reading the obituaries of my friends . To Margaret, the Librarian It was a librarian who first showed me … Continue reading
Doug Anderson: With the Light Dying
They were a sad lot, thought themselves the last of the righteous. Their ideas dead inside them, they armed their ignorant legions against the inevitable, thinking (in spite of their … Continue reading
Doug Anderson: Binge
War comes to visit me once a day. I can’t get rid of him. He’s grown old and hates himself. I stopped a quarter century ago, but he still drinks … Continue reading
Doug Anderson: The Numbers
She’s had a few drinks, looking over my shoulder with her breast against my back. I’m showing her something about her camera and I guess because I’m seventy-four she thinks … Continue reading
Doug Anderson: The Boat
Give me the humility of the physicist who knows how little we know of anything. Four percent is measurable and we don’t know the meaning of even that. All this … Continue reading
Doug Anderson: After Mahmoud Darwish
How, in this tangle of wire and garbage and the noise of Babylon with its million horns can I talk to the moon like a Bedouin leaning into the cold … Continue reading
Doug Anderson: Wings
Been so long since I’ve been loved, even touched, I told her, with no pity in my voice, just fact, and she reached over and took my hand in both … Continue reading
Doug Anderson: Poem
I can’t help but write it, get up in the morning and there it is. Useless, worth nothing on the market. No piece of oil field technology, nor can it … Continue reading
Doug Anderson: Death
Death is sitting at the foot of my bed. “Get up,” she says. “The sun is out and the horses are waiting for grain. Besides, love will blindside you again … Continue reading
Doug Anderson: Homage to Tu Fu
Snow quiets away the day. Still it falls, and the horses gather it on their backs. Black water moves beneath the ice where the Swift and Ware rivers … Continue reading
Doug Anderson: Morning Blues
Winter sneaking through the trees with his bag of salt. Winter sneaking through the trees with his bag of salt. Dark days coming ain’t nobody’s fault. Used to think love … Continue reading
