by McKenzie | Jun 1, 2011 | Blog, My Poems
1. You, you remember those earlier days when you walked along a more putrid river surrounded by chamomile and violets where the moon hung itself in the trees. The new moon became the funeral you walked into. You dreamt many times. 2. You remember how, once, your legs...
by McKenzie | May 18, 2011 | Blog, My Poems
Your body has become the point where meeting can no longer take place— Your mouth filled with leaves the day you borrowed her dress (covered in small roses) and threw it – as if guided by an invisible line – out over the ocean. You led her to a place where you wept...
by McKenzie | May 16, 2011 | Blog, Literary Scene
I’m planning on closing down my other blog, The Ink Traveler, so I can focus on this one and implement some of the more important focal points, such as reviewing and keeping to the plan of writing daily. And then I found this one post on that other blog, and I...
by McKenzie | May 9, 2011 | Blog, My Poems
This poem needs some serious work — Of Trenches and Stones Believing him is the easy part when love begins to taste like blood and water. Metaphor- ically: she wastes away on a cloud of opium and small metallic wings. You can taste the flour in the bread – smell...
by McKenzie | Mar 19, 2011 | Blog, My Poems
1. You were ill that winter. The flowers in your windowsill caught the flu, their red petals turned yellow against the snow. You remember those. You remember the way their scent changed from rose to lavender. 2. And when Christ learned to walk, you weren’t surprised....
by McKenzie | Mar 19, 2011 | Blog, My Poems
I slept in a shape that suggested sitting as though sitting in a chair all day were not enough. You sleep in this chair, too, dreaming of reflected hen houses and sheep that count backwards, dreaming on their heads in a way that suggests cow-tipping cannot take...
