Ann Arbor Review

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

Violeta Allmuca
Fred Wolven
 


Ann Arbor Review

is an independent

International Journal & ezine

Copyright (c) 2020 Francis Ferde
All rights revert back to each poet.
--editor / Southeastern Florida
------------------------------------------------

AAR history note:  in print 1967 - 1980.  Irregular publications 1980 - 2004.  As ezine 2004 - present. Most of 54 years all together....

 

-------------------
staff:
Francis Ferde
Silver Grey Fox
Running Cub
Fred Wolven


Submissions via e-mail:

poetfred@att.net

 

 

Ode to The Detroit River

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 skinís 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 cameraís 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 itís 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 itís 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 Loreleiís nautical machinations.
Cravan is dead, the mad poet is dead
I shouted at him but he wouldnít 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

   


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