Flat on my back in switchgrass, I sing ‘O Give Me a Home’ to the thousand-mile wind. Sometimes when I sing I even love my father. I feel how his braced leg fails him on any grassy slope. I see his withered right ankle, pale upon the good one, as he scoots along the floor to the bathroom—“out of my way!”—his privacy lost to loose BVDs and desperatio
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 heart. I spell the words I would not hear, on lines collapsing in the heat. My stupid moves, my lie
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 gold from lead. Write like the dead. Syllable your last beat. You will not make it to the end of the p
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— but giddy drop and he becomes the clitta-clat king of the bucket.
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 beloveds! my gifts, the psyilocybin syllable, and the blooded, holy words of sorrow, are delivered. the bo
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 a flame, in glass      fraud, fraud there is a truth     liar, liar I
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. vivid language is bullshit.   it isn’t what i felt…feel... there is one true place. it starts wit
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 and sets a pot to boil— metal scrapes— schk-cisch-k — on metal, shivers climb my back, neck, up my sca
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 ordinary incompleteness, and the daubed, crudely-molded, and spruced character with which we makeshift, once conflagrations are doused and youth's megrims give way. Three boys took my cocked hat, my hope for a natural death, my healthy color in good company. They corrupted me. They made me think they knew me, better than anyone, before or since.  They removed the boy I was and crawled in, to fester in the raw empty, and became ghouls in my oily corners, squatting on crumbled concrete. Thieves. Monsters.
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 brown stems and dead branches. And gone, all gone. Our mewling trills begin in crowns, our squeaks
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, compressidue of prehistoric fuck. Pigment is how earth hallucinates, locked in vasty dark of rocknes
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 being "noticed," a burden, or “taken care of.” It tends to make us shut-ins. We should get over it, and
fine art prints
writing by Greg Correll