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Brett Price

No Net


                                                for Corrine Fitzpatrick


Running circles around

the court where ballers ball


            clear game of sunlit launched AM


walks La Jetée to


                        …Philip Whalen

                        …Glenn Gould

                        …Samuel Smith




PM Sans Soleil



                                                                        past the rooftops lightning

                                                                        charges the clouds from within

                                                                        some deep cumulonimbus sea-thing


                                                                        undead and glowing

            hope for a future

            of trenched physiognomy


Hope for clarity


Sister as stray shot


of ink


mid-stride thinking strike

right to the head




New Year


                                                for Dani Leventhal



     Strange lot


                        for loves tatooically bound

                        you, among others


                        so furiously pin-drop

                        to the body’s call


            will succeed

                             in health or harm, whatever


it decides                           



                                                 “like two sides of a coin”



            spinning into one

            complementary sphere then


            requires only our relentless attention

            and absolute spatio-temporal proximity



                        no sweat


                                    inconsolable urges


                skewed lenses incarnate


     the limits and leeway

     lack of money gives to mind


     is all we’re up against


                                         ambience as attack


     at our most extreme apsis breeds




a population of flags

whose various charges

no winds rustle animate




                                                            pulsate, listless, into old

                                                            remedies, tried and false

                                                            for perceived absence

                                                            of forms more conducive

                                                            to gift



                        rabbit-skinned monocle


                                    knee-deep, she trudges the stream


            and the inexhaustible city


                                    runs you down




                                                                 “that’s just how the popcorn pops”




Winters in the trestle-high house

radically blue hours, be gone

from our back-step



What you see with such immediacy

and offer up


                                    paper falls sway with your

                                    silverest time


we need                        in the face

                                    of the tall order it takes

                                    to make it. 



Last Poem


                                                After Ted Berrigan



It was my first go, I did ok. 

Pops taught me personal best. That,

relative frugality, and his hands, I kept. 

The rest was my way, “my” a matter

of dams and tributaries as well as leaks

left or never known.  I tried to own up.

Proud beacon of care for many

a kiddo, wonder knew me by name.

All tiny occurrences of tremendous power

must’ve felt the range I kept for them,

though it rustled living leaves rarely.

I sensed the degree to which time heats

the belly up.  The wish to bring new life began

and when the sand, for some longstanding,

quickened to glass transoms, I held

my keys, developed elaborate new means

of friendship, made adjustments,

tweaked the belts, let stuck voices sound

their cautions and sometimes chose the wrench,

though not without an exit propped

at the foothills of approaching messes,

where old residential streets, solitude,

I have imaginary lives to live, pure

thought temples un-scuffed by inter-

personal wear, easily afforded retreat. 

My spine was a shipwreck

but came through in the end.

I have neither years nor cred to speak

of sadness.  There was sadness all along

and ignorance of love, given in risk,

abandon, catching finally that edge

necessary to establish its collaborative depth.

Infinitive states replaced receipts.

Aquarian, I am lost to the air.  Goodbye. 

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