Kristofer Collins: Trying to Read Levis at Drag Brunch 9.28.24
Yes, here is the late style of fire. Here is the burning
and the beauty of the thing engulfed.
Later I will not lack for poetry and my wife and I
will scorch the sheets.
Kristofer Collins: Pineapple Eddie (three poems)
This is not the color
if justice is what we expect. I feel
God’s thumb pushing down our heads
like dull tacks into this offended earth.
Kristofer Collins: Good Time Charlie’s Got the Blues
a laugh she must have gotten
from her dad, some proud and slightly
embarrassing inheritance, but hell this
thing boomed around the bar
Kristofer Collins: Looking at the Lake
Where are your
wonderful ideas now? All ten thousand
of them, each one a tiny grain you
let loose in this world.
Kristofer Collins: Jack Teagarden Buries Louis Armstrong’s Oriental Strut, Mesa, NM, ca.1926
lifting the tarnished curve of his horn to papery lips, Jack
Teagarden somewhere in 1947, his heart piled up with booze
and debt, but still a suppleness to his mouth, a flash
of something dangerous in the hard set of his jaw
Kristofer Collins: Gene’s Last Chance
Pity Gene for washing up here
dry as no August ever was
in Pittsburgh, scorched and sanded
of tongue and bereft of options.
Kristofer Collins: Vigil
Later still I’ll dream of those four o’clock winds
crashing my body as the late sun wavered
querulously over San Francisco and I’ll tell
myself I loved there, I was loving and loved
Kristofer Collins: Good Days
My place in this life
a given and the years rolling out
in front of me a tender invitationto stick around
Jason Irwin: Landscape
See the men break through the early morning mistlike phantoms from a dream; their hat brims
pulled low, shirt sleeves rolled above elbows,
boots caked with last week’s mud.
Kristofer Collins: A Poem for Michael Wurster
The only connection I felt to the mills
was to the children of a generation of flayed men
on unemployment, the storefronts boarded…
Kristofer Collins: This Vicious Year
The common belief is the universe
is cold and empty and this speck of dust
is the only game in town. And what have we done
with this mathematically improbable honor?
Kristofer Collins: Burning
for Margaret Bashaar You are reciting poems as the Braddock Avenue trees litter pink buds all over, or perhaps you are dreaming. These million floating poems carry your full … Continue reading
Kristofer Collins: Never Let Go
for Frank O’Hara Amazing how tired I am, 3pm a Thursday. People keep talking to me unsolicited, and the bar across the street is owned by a republican draft … Continue reading
Kristofer Collins: Asylum
for Kenneth Patchen When the sky opens up I hurry for the bus shelter hoping for some kind of asylum. I’ve nowhere to be and today I just want … Continue reading
