SAM SAVAGE morning-glories

May 25, 2014 § Leave a comment

 

A bent street sign   the insane man’s eyes

 

 

It could be the site for something   a bare hill

 

 

Just beyond the prison wall a wall of trees

 

 

Dancing to sounds from the Big Band Era a pair of midgets

 

 

Out of the fog’s whiteness silence

 

 

Unslept, the cool breeze on my eyelids

 

 

Alone in a house with children the slowly falling dusk

 

 

Along the roadside

torn-up paper in the grass

is morning-glories

 

SAM SAVAGE ant ant ant ant ant 1995

October 15, 2013 § Leave a comment

from Eighteen kinds of loneliness

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EIGHT

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Going after waving to someone there’s my back

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NINE

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Evening down a road where a car has gone

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TWELVE

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A small window filled with seasounds it lightens

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SEVENTEEN

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Rain on a sharp field of stones

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EIGHTEEN

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With a raincoat and umbrella I go to hear someone sing

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YUGEN PRESS (McCLELLANVILLE 1995)

 

ant ant ant ant ant four

July 15, 2013 § Leave a comment

“In many ways the culmination of my original vision for the journal.”

ai li, Ronald Baatz, Peter Bakowski, Michael Basinski, Guy R. Beining, Ed Bennett, John M. Bennett, Ernest J. Berry, Diane Borsenik, Jason Sanford Brown, Tom Clausen, MTC Cronin, Bill DiMichele, A. di Michele, Dennis H. Dutton, John Elsberg, Crag Hill, Gary Hotham, Dorothy Howard, Jim Kacian, W. B. Keckler, M. Kettner, Jim Leftwitch, Shawn Lindsay, Paul Long, paul m., Robert Major, Errol Miller, Sheila E. Murphy, Dan Nielsen, Jim Normington, Simon Perchik, Anthony J. Pupello, George Ralph, William Ramsey, Dennis Saleh, Hiroaki Sato, Sam Savage, Caroline Steinhoff Smith, John Stevenson, Michael Dylan Welch, Arizona Zipper.

http://en.calameo.com/read/00251154550cdc71c99db

VARIOUS ARTISTS ant ant ant ant ant three

July 11, 2012 § 1 Comment

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under butternut tree

ears of leaves

fondle light

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Guy R. Beining

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for a while

I look at my bike

without me

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the way

they fit

in her hand

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all of a sudden

the t.v.

doesn’t work

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Tom Clausen

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skidding petal bruises

on the concrete

rain like butter

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small creases in

your information filled with

anxious juices

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A. Daigu

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a few feet

from our feet

the ocean bottom starts

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snow flakes

no one will miss

melt in her hand

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Gary Hotham

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hairs

the many ants

amidst the grass

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hearing a car

that never comes

high pine wind

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Jim Kacian

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stray dog   window reflecting blue sky

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boldly staccato

fissures singing along

maps set aside

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city limits   bulrushes

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year of the pancreas

sandwich for dessert

theater seats upside-down

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M. Kettner

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my dealer says he’s

worried about me gives me

extra for free

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Xie Kitchin

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invited to feel

the stubble on her legs

autumn rain

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Shawn Lindsay

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pebble splash

all I hurl

sinks

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William M. Ramsey

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white blossoms

a fly brings their

beauty to me

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Edward J. Reilly

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In the phone booth

a little girl

talks to God.

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A man asks directions

hand over

his mouth.

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Alexis K. Rotella

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Thesaurus of whites

Moth of months circling itself

Idiot savant

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Dennis Saleh

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Wakened by someone scratching at the window it’s the rain again

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Hot night   a yellow-toothed moon gnaws at the screens

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Turning on the light I become someone alone in a house

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Sam Savage

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the Loki seed

pushed down in the grey folds

until you laugh

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Sean Winchester

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SAM SAVAGE ant ant ant ant ant

November 8, 2011 § Leave a comment

:

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A small window filled with seasounds it lightens

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Everyone sleeping late

A white goat

bleats incessantly

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Rain at night

kept out by the dusty

smell of the screens

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Not anything, really

drifting clouds

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Waves

and over the waves

again waves

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A screen door full of holes a breaking wave

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Evening down a road where a car has gone

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Rain on a sharp field of stones

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Going on after waving to someone there’s my back

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With a raincoat and umbrella I go to hear someone sing

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Straight road, tall pines: a stray dog, taking it

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Wakened by someone scratching at the window it’s the rain again

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Hot night a yellow-toothed moon gnaws at the screens

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Turning on the light I become someone alone in the house

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Sleepless the sound of my eyelashes on the pillow

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Bus station toilet the backs of the men look like weeping

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the sound you hear

like lapsing handles

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or a vast propeller

turning in a church

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is lichen moving

in waves over rocks

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1994-1996

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