by Joseph Victor Milford
it really is a good option that this entire species should die with no record of it. entertain this.
i loaded a cannon with peach-pits, a shotgun with peanut shells, a pistol with a cherry seed.
i always thought i could lash anything together to stop the bleeding of the world. idealist.
cairn and crib. corn in the fridge. holidays and their bagpipes. tensions in the hovel. wreaths.
when i think of dragons i think of koi and how they live in my underbrain in meningeal soup.
in the winter, as we drive parcels home, i can see all the nests in trees now. makes me happy.
what does it mean for the panopticon to shred its Tarot card into your hands like canopy rain?
you can eat snout. you can eat hoof. you can eat jowl. you can eat guts. you can eat memories.
like a spider that makes its underwater web i think i should kiss you in a bubble. a trap-whisper. in the blue mist of the morning i cleaned sleep from my eyes and a slingstone cut my cheekbone.
cannonballs through bass-lines twist my guts into better knots that no bullet could pierce.
end loop. dropper loop. bowline. figure eight. clove hitch. end loop 1. end loop 2. end loop 3.
you can only drag so many skulls behind you before you have to make a metropolis.
necropolis leaves its skulls to calcify. great cities of the soil. skull-holder, plant bulbous seeds.
he crawled out of the coma in the deer carcass and a year later you could see antlers growing.
Alexander Selkirk sleeps in a tent in my backyard and befriends neighbors and stray dogs.
things went agee. the wind was esse. we found ourselves trying to cage miniature tornadoes.
Fomalhaut rises 4:31am. Algorab meridian to come. Shaula rises as well. Procyon sets 10:41pm. i count how many carwrecks i have had and compare those to the fact i ever occurred. wrecker. i would love to fly to the moon. but i can't. actually i could actually. still, i like my sawdust life.
i opened stables—cleaned them as Hercules. there were rot grubs bigger than wrestlers' fingers. played guitars so hard strings ran from me--women said i'd never be a man until i played a harp.i was so nervous--instead of butterflies, i've got frogs. i had short arms and deep deep pockets. the electroplate technique for ormolu is not too hard to perfect in a properly equipped shed. the path integral within the canonical S-matrix primarily will make Wick's expansion gleeful? parking cars on Indian burial grounds which are actually Cherokee cursed our supreme courts. i hate when wind makes me lose my chain of thought. i actually then chain wind and chastise it. do sharks crave light so much that they wait for the blood from the sun to fill their black eyes? when someone gambles, his face changes--incredulous morphs mutations. loud as hell mutes. i thought she was behind me. she may have left forever. parakeets in cages. me with empty pens.
JOSEPH VICTOR MILFORD is a Professor of English and a Georgia writer. His first collection of poems, Cracked Altimeter, was published by BlazeVox Press in 2010. He is also the host of The Joe Milford Poetry Show, where he has compiled an archive of over 300 interviews and readings with American and Canadian poets. Joe Milford also edits the poetry journal RASPUTIN and he is co-founder and poetry editor of BACKLASH PRESS.
Belle Rêve Literary Journal is a southern literary experience. Our mission is to capture everything that makes the South and its residents unique through the best contemporary literature we can find. We publish new works weekly.
Passionately Ran, Compassionately Fed.