February 25, 2012
March 23, 2010
[from Visitors, Cavaliers]
went to the door : a little thin :
flax cream light & peeled : widely open
glass persons who : not stained
incarnadine inhabit me
are not unrelated to memoirs, of passing through an age,
ever-soak this circumspect /
tears you elsewhere like historicity
(forward free the mastiff is loose among the eaves)
emotions of the warfare I grew up upon, if I didn’t
then flit among the wild & unbrackets,
the red stains of flowers & tall grasses
knowing a submerge-ment
resistant of photography memory annals to alleviate a subject
waiting for a vacancy to open
within the framework of this day-lit moon [ impossibly ] on fire–
someone has a lot to answer for the informant
has destroyed the mastiff, the illuminated parchment
we use to keep track,
of the awestruck, the terrifying
brink-root I compose
as to how I disappeared but reappear again
amid the shade of two moon-lit elms–
I’ll meet you later at examples & not assume a plentitude,
a favor upwards from the new wake, the strong
passage of yellow
ribbons tied upon my mental capacity :
is stretched out
& hours of
: to a voice I replay my staff
(forward free the mastiff eats out the carcass of a deer)
of some cities
at the walls
take place in fields, in meadows,
of species in the battles & the meadows
viscous, all the names
sap of milkweed pods, put your finger,
the heaving light of butterflies, the sticky
Are places in the storyboard & divided in dimension. I am salvaging
the papers we most enduringly require.
Uncanny subset. Anthropology.
Welcome to the debut posts for BRL Saturday Night! Featuring the writing of Veronica Carlos-Landa ! Jenny Drai ! Sarah Garrigan !
February 1, 2009
Scroll past this months post to read the bios of each of the writers. Thanks so much for logging on +V.
January 31, 2009
from DARK AGE
Sophie’s writing about Siggo eating a plum. He’s still in that fifth century so maybe just some apples from an arbor but hear her out.
The plum is sweetly fragrant. Flavors swell and burst until he lives against his tongue. Now she can get his sentence out. I ought to tell you where you’re from he tells the pit he throws into the wind.
Where you’re going.
Siggo thinks in the orchard.
January 1, 2009
Veronica Carlos-Landa is a Mexican-American poet who has lived in California all of her life and never plans to leave. She received her BA from UC Berkeley and her MFA from St. Mary’s College. Vero, as her friends affectionately call her, also teaches, learns, loves, sews, knits, and loves to drink beer.