"All poetics is local," writes Michael Kelleher in response to Aaron Lowinger's Front Park poems. From third floor window, co-founder of House Press and author of moundz.blogspot.com, writes at the ecstasy of despair and the irony of joy. Recent author of chapbook Open Night Poems, about which Michael Basinski exclaims "The poet is in love and singing it poetry and finds all the silly and stupid and mundane things terrific! And finds all the important and special unique love things terrific! And terrific they are and the mind wanderings and celebration of imagination terrific and taxi cabs! And corn! And etc. of the city and as Bard of Buffalo!!"
Poems and articles published in Oh One Arrow (Flim Forum), Drill, Artvoice, String of Small Machines, Small Town, Spell, Riverspine, and Tongue; online at rockheals.com, and on a continuing basis at moundz.blogspot.com.
RECENT PROJECTS:
FRONT PARK
1:58 am WINDOW and west of here I see radio towers
towpath through trees and a river
the river
hanging from arms
like arms above
hang sneakers from wires
the streetlights stay on my lights are all on
my room looks like a light house from outside
The Great Lakes should be its own century |
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MOUNDZ
Rain around the ring around the moon. Faster under the trees that look like they should have leaves. Instead the houses. The houses stand like faces. Skin falling off everywhere. The harder I ran. And more skin. I didn't even have money to burn. High the sky is. One body of water. A car horn. Fewer cars than normal. Now it is night and we burn. The lake pounds the bed. Under the moon I watch the street wave. Sirens in my head. Nothing the burn. I burn breath. I burn heat. I make water. I burn skin. Tree to tree. A string. Noun Verb Noun. Cats blank sidewalks. Love the night.
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open night
the wind is like a movie
mysterious and drawn out
it puts me to sleep
like bipolar streetlight
on and off
If we walk into the light
and the air ever-expanding
like the first night
drunk on pop and crab cakes
I promise when we get married
we'll have old fashioned milkshakes
the light's blacked out
I hear the river from here
where mud puppies foam
and children are covered in fur
and cigarettes make you sick
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2.1
I found you on the apogee of fist city
Like telemetry your name backwards on an ambulance
Swimming upstream to the big death of Berlin
Back in the country stalking the empty bleachers in my boy park
Under the oldest living tree in Buffalo
I leave the house and am followed by thousands of your friends
Leaves from last autumn rising up through the ice
The music inside the lantern in the street scene paintings by your couch
To turn the blood the milk to water that rains down tomorrow’s America.
10/05
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