Category: articles
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When it Hit the Saltlick • from 54 poems at 27
when it hit the saltlick — sunlight — crystals added white to what’d released its color when it hit the snowfall — dayglow — crystals made it better, bright Salt of the Earth adults drawing from light’s abode magnificate Innocents in their first flurrious attempts at changing the landscape(s) together? Not. White. unbright, unilluminated melted,…
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Fall Into The • from 54 poems at 27
There’s a gap in the platform between the train and the earth you can fall right through it mind the gap. There’s a gap in the sidewalk between the grate and the earth you can fall right through it mind the gap. There’s a gap in the windshield between the crash and the reaction you…
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Vox Dei • from 54 poems at 27
Within my mind there hides a whitened stag whose face appears those times I find my voice. I saw him first within the books I write though handsome, he appeared robed like a hag. He offered my overgrown mind a choice: To keep on writing the story I’d found or follow him forward into the…
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The Wreaker • from 54 poems at 27
every tree torn down through the wrath of a terrible twister every branch broke off at the paws of this barreling bear all these homes, how I know they’re reduced to embers all our homes – so many triangles cut out of squares take one Omnimax camera and stack it up on top of another walk…
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Aftertastes • from 54 poems at 27
I’ve wondered at the flavor, at the tastes of hidden things I have licked the air to savor scents unknown – from palate, wings. I’ve dipped my thumb in The Thick Of It and stuffed it in my cheek and held it there till it dissolved— tobacco, so to speak. I’ve bit into unbitables: like loss…
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Beckon • from 54 poems at 27
When you walk between both soundhouses You will see that the lighthouse ain’t the only keep emitting sense for the feelhouses – those phalluses – reach, tingle make the hairs… how they stand on end, shivering. And the scenthouses billow upwards, smoke signals of the fragrances, fair and foul, to come: ethereal masts. When you…
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Greenwood Cemetery, Mid-winter’s Night 2015 • from 54 poems at 27
solid ice erected a sheen over thousands of shipmasts, hundreds of spires I looked again through black wrought iron spikes beyond their frozen ocean wave to the light some faced – others ignored – beyond the second wall of steel. orange warmth washed over mistless masts stark-set against blued half-things, vapors, half-trees, half-stones, half-beasts there roaming…
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Convocatio • from 54 poems at 27
come to the borders outside your town come pilots and forders come naked or in a gown come to the borders springtime and frost not all we who wander are counted with the lost meet me at the inn of the borderland where travel’s the only cost tear your leash asunder your chains be tempest…
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The Thing About Growing Old… • from 54 poems at 27
four gloves I’ve lost in New York City I missed their warm enclosures. One I received in tandem with thirteen three-piece suits my sister-in-law gave it — all she had to give — Though warmest, I lost it on the wettest December night walking to the train new guitar in tow in the New York…
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At the North American Premier :: Of Men and War
By some luck and love, Tara and I received memberships to MoMa this year for Christmas. Among the benefits are free tickets to every showing they offer, including their various festivals. We made it to the North American premier of the film… Of Men and War by Laurent Bécue Renard Man were we in…
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![Burdens [song] • from 54 poems at 27](https://lanceschaubert.org/wp-content/uploads/2015/05/2904759616_2b1006c26d_b-672x372.jpg)
Burdens [song] • from 54 poems at 27
written originally during Lent for The Calendar Years C maj7 C7 We set down indulgence Fmaj7 Fm7 and pray for your restraint Em7 A7 We give up our taking Dm7 G7 and take away complaint Cmaj7 I need less violence C7 Need less slander Fmaj7 Fm7 C need less of what I hate I hand you…
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Assorted Thoughts • from 54 poems at 27
Nested bowls work if you stack carefully. If not, they lean. Contractors in 1173 were likely rushed through a soup luncheon in that Pisa basement. My friend has an acrylic sweater that changes color and shape every day, namely because every morning he chooses a different brush and palate to paint it on. I once encountered…