by Poetry

Terrifying, how much poetry
  one can find, if you look
     in the right graves.


show me nightmares
needed to understand
the beauty of poetry / the soul of verse
and I will dream them;

under northern clouds, I will dream
the rare beauty of a clear night sky
until all the stars go out
and there is nothing left;

under nothingness, I will dream
of the great, forgotten jewels;
glistening dew on an evening dress.

Show me, again, Ezra, mad Ezra,
the majesties and freedoms
of this madness;
show me them in dying,
if not in death –
in living,
if not in life.

We are dying, you and I,
(or dead already) and,
there are poets out there,
living adequate lives; creating
reflections and pressed ashes
of the most exquisite beauty –
and there are those, living
truly wonderful moments,
truly beautiful nights,
without writing
a single word.

Free eBooks

modern poetry
Carey Poet

A Little Ink

all the wit in the world
incomparable to handfuls of hot
dripping meat; that’s what I wanted;
everything I read
everything I wrote
to be dripping wet

After the Parasites Came

I draw my grandfather’s lungs in charcoal spit the fluid in his throat; tremor in art as is the shaking hands when he goes to lift the tea to his lips. Making leaves in old mugs transferred to sipping cups and the brief illumination of the body...


I ask their mirrors
clutching the remains
of some stolen loves &
trying to light ash again;
why me?

Titan Titanesses (Dream 2)

Titan Titanesses lay to sleep on the breast of their mother; foreign heat burns and melts stony flesh to river run and freeze in slopes like highland homes mounted on the hips of not-dead things, but trapped beneath their own grass stone moss tree skin. Burst, no,...