I started reading an epistemology text and now I am just sitting around thinking about indirect realism and how one’s own body is an external world.
Poems from The Bone and the Body appeared in Tarpaulin Sky Magazine today. I am pretty happy about it (is an understatement).
I’ve been focused on Doors of New Jersey for the past year, so it’s nice to return to the rhythm of these prose poems. This voice and these beachscapes still matter, still echo.
To stay the magistrate
lean into this world or the next. I need the flesh of my body
for favors, my fill
to die, to slowly die, your body the hole,
hair dingy as if white trash
meth, she’s on limbs, cramps, potatos. I
let myself cry hard jogging the Barrio.
– Shelly Taylor