Flat on my back in switchgrass, I sang ‘O Give Me a Home’ to the thousand-mile wind. Sometimes when I sang I even loved my father. Felt how his braced leg failed him on any grassy slope. Saw his withered right ankle, pale upon the good one, as he sco
I do not sleep, night after night. I stomp my snock-wall cranium, leave bloody bootprints and bone bruises. I swallow chemicals, hold my throat.  To close my eyes is sand on talc, is memory ink, is grotesque plasm;  a spill within my wadded
Stop writing as if you'll survive, be discovered, and understood. Don't pretend you have time to not mean every word. Mean it. Every word. Or else make spreadsheets. Precious, clever lines won’t sound better later, or accrue in value, or change to go
I smell crawdad in mud-glow, fish-tang from a hidey-hole; zinc-y water-rot aroma, stink of joy to a barefoot boy, slipfinger boy in wet dungarees. Grab a blue shell, wave a snip-claw, mechanical claw, bend-back claw, to trim a trophy off curly thumb—
goodbye to weight within; i am the helium beast, i rise, ugly as sin, clean as nimbus, to the mothering sky. i saw every color. i felt you tremble. how true my heart was, long ago, how reliable my tongue, before i knew bitter. all done, o best belove
tear me out     ruckety-luck send the children away     sleep, sleep give up on me      slice, slice I'm bad, I'm wrong     always, always nothing holds me      gone, gone I’m
can’t sleep. i wear a horseshoe crab hat. brain is stubble field. hand gropes upward in a dark not dark enough. because because because because because i must  re-inhabit force-feeding. fear of cold tile. bare bulbs —see? this isn’t real yet. vi
Nana, in the kitchen, her glasses loose on their string, pours Uncle Sam cereal into her measuring cup; shakes, puts a little more. I close my eyes; I hear: My finger-scratch on chalky page. Sister puts out bowls, spoons— thunk-k-clakit —she fills an
What holds grief? What furrow deep inside, what red canal, hoards the debris, the leavings, the cut-away parts of my original form? Is there enough left? Can my true form be recovered? Once upon a time I was a boy, not especially happy, destined for
We are birds in the canopy. We hear each other sing, we squabble, we pine for each other, and fly from place to place. Carouse the high room of love, work the day for worms. Regular as dirt. We finish under the canopy, unnamed, indistinguishable from
One urgent press of my crumbly stick —a drag, a mark on pulpwood fiber— and your bleached, watermark'd world is marred by my desire. The making of my line saturates, and I Brando. I taste minerals. I maraca. I floor it. Carbon is the ash of romance,
A Public Service Announcement for people who like people with movement disorders. —We become more symptomatic as the day/evening wears on, or with stress, or heat, or just 'cause. We're not getting "worse" or "better" "these days." —We don’t like bei
Everything goes. Even him. Even her. Even-stephen. Bye, you! Best goodbye! mmm...I calm down. We will pretend this moment is forever, you and I, or I will... Excellent moments are too few. I comfort you....you...you. You. You. I work to have an insid
I walk the mystery city, its dark angles and golden slices. I make my way up  glasstic, gargoyle'd, rubble-shine to the only way in
I went to hear Massimo Pigliucci at SUNY Ulster on May 5th (2012. He was promoting his book, "Nonsense on Stilts: How to Tell Science from Bunk." It's full of lucid examples from the borderlands of science and pseudo-science, and a lot of fun to read
In 1936, the publishers of The Dolphin: A Journal of the Making of Books, began work on “A History of the Printed Book.” They commissioned essays. They sent staff into the cauldron of pre-war Europe to rescue woodblocks, copperplates, etchings, and examples. They were convinced that books would always exist, and felt an obligation to document the original materials and methods, and the talented artisans, who invented and perfected printing. The result is a richly illustrated and uniquely detailed history, written by scholars.
fine art prints
writing by Greg Correll