INSIDE THIS ISSUE:
Michelle Bailat-Jones
Amit Parmessur
Steve Barfield
Fahredin Shehu
Karyn M. Bruce
Richard Gartee
Running Cub
Dejoy Robillard
Yuan Hongri
Lasz.o Slomovits
Silvia Scheibli
Stephen Sleboda
Alan Britt
Gale Acuff
Elisavietta Ritchie
Shutta Crum
Patty Dickson Pieczka
Duane Locke
Jennifer Burd
Aneek Chatterjee
Robert Nisbet
Robert Penick
Alex Ferde
Solomon Musa Haruna
Ann Arbor Review
is an independent
International Journal & ezine
Copyright (c) 2020
Francis Ferde
All rights revert back to each poet.
--editor / Southeastern Florida
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AAR history note: in print 1967 - 1980. Irregular publications 1980 - 2004. As ezine 2004 - present. Most of 54 years all together....
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staff:
Francis Ferde
Silver Grey Fox
Running Cub
Fred Wolven
Submissions via
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The river does not see the naked city skyline
Until it begins to progress around the western border
Of the wood.
There in the distance, its long silvery hair
Spawns memories throwing me sidelong
Into an icy hypnogogic trance
Sending me further beneath the ice
Like a Demerol dream escaping by hung fingernails
Under its subcutaneous feelings.
Bright glared in naked sky
A mass of concrete and glass, an orgy to the eyes
Fueled by the liquid grams
Of syringful beauty and sunlight
WE LOUNGE IN HOTEL ETHER
We lounge on dream boats
Where fresh weather
fallen from the troposphere
Is removed from crowded rooms
Your hands obscured in cloudy gestures.
Your unwavering tongue
affixed to the postcard
Of my flesh. The tremble skin
of the skin’s parlance.
The tingle of the bullet bore shot clean.
The separation of flesh from gluon atom.
Our celestial bodies
reunite in other rooms
Our perfected limbs elevated
Into Phantom punctuation.
Amidst cutups
and conundrums
The specter of the engendered bone.
We lounge
in the aleatory nature of our
Stewed inner metals. Fluid bodies
Dancing in mercury.
Our transparent immutable selves
Exposed to the camera’s silken film.
Knockout at the Craven Hotel
I
remember being knocked out cold once
Lying on a crowded beach
In a Mexican resort town drinking too much
Tequila by the pool.
Everything took on a slow manana toll
Buzz booze with inchoate conversations
The Merciless Mersault sun
Beating me down with velvet yellow gloves
Round 7. I had several pounding headaches.
Nightmare bands playing mariachi measures
Up and down the dark rooms of my ganglion motel.
My crotch on fire with the lust of Spanish women.
My literary visions took over the ghost ship.
Through rusty buzz tubes
I saw Odysseus with mad dogs and women
Saw Mexican poets diving into the glaucous sea
Trying to rescue the dreams of giant blue turtles.
Saw mad dog boxer Craven too
With a championship birth at the Hart Crane Hotel.
You were a blond colossus then
A poster boy for dada
Who blooded the noses of the Futurists ahead of time
Cercle de la Biche-Paris
Grand Central Station too.
You
took of your clothes and started a riot.
In Sing Sing you punched and prodded
around with poetry.
Such a brutal genius you were.
I wonder what it’s like Craven?
Plath did it. Chaterton and Hem too.
Head in the oven, gun to the temple.
Jump out of a building like Crosby in Detroit.
Out, out brief candle and never again.
They say you were swallowed by a giant wave
Somewhere off Puerto Angel
When the sweet angels came to take you away
I wonder what it’s like Craven?
When Cod and God makes dinner of your liver oils
Your lost poems lie at the bottom of a Mexican sea
An anchor for Lorelei’s nautical machinations.
Cravan is dead, the mad poet is dead
I shouted at him but he wouldn’t come out from the waves.
Gone down into cold cold water without a fight.
The sea is a banner
The sea is a banner
The sea is a banner
This cold green element in swelled liquid sheets
Washing over us all.
Denjoy Robillard, Windsor, Ontario, Canada