Poems by D. R. James

Cement Garden It’s spring again, silvery buds on branches, the garden violent with hydrangea sticks. Grandma has wandered to her front-porch chair. There, her toes barely touch the floor, her gown screens her sighing knees, her newspaper masks sink and cupboard undulating behind her eyes. Apology’s necessary— this is not her style: beyond the gate […]

Howie Good: Being Me

Being Me There’s bad shit going on. Supply chain problems are said to be to blame. Often one has to make things oneself in order to have or see them. Just ask meth cooks what that means. I’ve been following a long, confusing route, down streets that twist and turn like Nietzsche’s enigmatic aphorisms and […]

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