Russell Brickey and Robert Wynne
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Russell Brickey
russell.brickey@gmail.com
Bio (auto)
Russell Brickey (Boardman, Ohio) has collections out from Wild Leaf, Spuyten Duyvil, and Aldritch Book.
The following work is Copyright © 2016, and owned by Russell Brickey and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.
How Monstrous the SunflowersBearded sun-eyes lunge at the garden. How momentous the wind The reign of white muddy feet
What Time MeansThere is no way the young bison For months I carried grit Despite your best efforts, A dragon wades to the sea shore. Eventually the sea will win. Meanwhile, Glaciers calve hearts of ice Nothing beautiful, nothing terrible remains. So familiar it frightens us both.
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Robert Wynne
robert.wynne@sbcglobal.net
Bio (auto)
Robert Wynne sends greeting from the abstract wastelands of Endicott, New York. He is a firm believer in writing as catharsis, and in the need to continuously search for an unattainable and constantly evolving absolute truth. His latest collections are Approximate Wilderness (2016 Flutter Press) and A Nation of Assholes With Guns (Scars Publications). All pertinent facts about his life are buried somewhere in his writing. Visit John’s blog here.
The following work is Copyright © 2016, and owned by Robert Wynne and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.
Cargo Shorts in Peril: The Button Speaks
The cheese is noticeably frowning only the roof of your mouth keening low at your waist, hot fat into a light brown puddle but this is the meal that will finally like any sacrifice made to stave off and I land face down near your shoe,
What walks down stairs, alone or in pairs?
Silver spring casts no shadow on the nose of the curious dog the coil stretches like a worm into a future where Sea Monkeys face off red vs. blue, one always it wears no shoes, kisses no frogs, as it slides smoothly away
Running from Writer’s Block
But my shoes are mismatched: and a Marvin the Martian slipper. I am no longer allowed to enter that elective knee enlargements as I hobble forward, announcing with a bad sense of humor. a melting out of business sale. and squelch that hot, bright bulb that guards the Queen, particularly Brian in the dugout during a blowout win. in favor of distance and new shoes, to avoid the inevitable. Words fail another envelope with a Rejection. until you can’t run any more, write
The Cosmic Eclipse Tomato
Indigo and dark green, impressionistic orb that creation myths are still being written. like a vegetable God, painting thin skin to world after world: deep red and green in a Solar Flare, orange speckles they flower into such sweet bruises, to the salad sitting silent, stunned.
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