by Chris Butler
These are the words of Sam Hammil,
but most poets swallow the pill
the morning after
to abort their poems,
rather than giving birth
to flippers.
Blog Archive
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2010
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August
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- if there's any irony to be culled at this point in...
- The Couple Fighting In Front Of The Box Office Ul...
- Internet
- some more truth
- Delusions
- Fallen
- within five minutes of entering the supermarket
- at the community picnic
- The Rancid Rooms of Montreal
- Items of Amorous Intent
- What a Man Needs
- Nine In the Morning
- Cruel Summer
- Fran’s Building
- Summer
- The Age of Sail
- Shark Week
- FRESH MORNING COFFEE
- Gateway
- Elegy
- A Guided Tour of Hell
- In the bottom of some hour
- Your Eyes Are The Saddest Cowboy Lament
- Skipping Rosetta Stones Across the Backs of the Ag...
- Homesickness
- Namesake (For My Grandfather)
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August
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