this site has tons of Bree art ::: https://www.facebook.com/poetBreeart
peruse the various albums. any may be bought as prints on fine paper or on canvass...inquire as to pricing. also make portraits, illustrate poems, design book covers or otherwise make to order art.
will be updating the artist site regularly....
Showing posts with label Green Panda Press. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Green Panda Press. Show all posts
Friday, February 13, 2015
Thursday, February 12, 2015
Friday, January 9, 2015
portraits
Saturday, August 9, 2014
Wednesday, January 4, 2012
read Tom Kryss's The Attempt Itself' online now!
go here to read this poem (stapled half-fold 11 pgs. Green Panda Press 2008).
Sunday, November 6, 2011
Bree pome
and i have on the porch
just smoking an isolated burst of generic joy
which i acknowledge briefly,
and consider
the whole lack of sources—at once, so
that it is without being,
and
it is (just like death) everything.
i think times
of our little talk.
you say, ‘no one is happy’,
me say, ‘i am,’ (knowing you are).
if when joy i think of u then
what more proof do you need, rockstar?
ejaculation? honorariums?
or, worse, death?
get over it and on comes the next,
even tedium, staircase of days spent wiping
tiles clean of our any trace.
until the next good drunk
or fabulous sunset
or night spent with Miller
a bottle of au Francais well worth.
this is happyness, in between things,
me having your goodness
to hold mine up to.
you being, so-to-say in median res
away from me being away from you
in the middle of mine.
hopefully we neither ovus occupied,
free to smile, bend, snake,
agile as runningbacks,
can without feeling pressed
just take
in.
what comes your way, a lined in goldleaf
presed suit of wool
serged to prevent unraveling,
in just your size.
what enters my picture but the
Cadillac of purses, an Eco
filled with ample bills to back
my every bet.
life gives all (we need), at no cost to us
but the time energy and passions
we spend receiving it.
your bad back and jaundice,
my migraines and suspicion are
no thang, baby, when we
don’t make things of them.
summer flowers smile tenfold,
each direction
while we mutter over cold soup.
we are eating our soup!
how is that?
winter flowers screaming drown in
ice of winters gaze,
let us drown, in ecstacy
of each others' wars, and wage.
the rest the year, come spring,
(change), come autumn, change accordingly.
but weep each December! weep
openly in April!
weep!
you’re still here, pretending
happiness is for fools not kings?
your glass is full, and we (all)
are your audience. speak, king!
(or truly weep).
just smoking an isolated burst of generic joy
which i acknowledge briefly,
and consider
the whole lack of sources—at once, so
that it is without being,
and
it is (just like death) everything.
i think times
of our little talk.
you say, ‘no one is happy’,
me say, ‘i am,’ (knowing you are).
if when joy i think of u then
what more proof do you need, rockstar?
ejaculation? honorariums?
or, worse, death?
get over it and on comes the next,
even tedium, staircase of days spent wiping
tiles clean of our any trace.
until the next good drunk
or fabulous sunset
or night spent with Miller
a bottle of au Francais well worth.
this is happyness, in between things,
me having your goodness
to hold mine up to.
you being, so-to-say in median res
away from me being away from you
in the middle of mine.
hopefully we neither ovus occupied,
free to smile, bend, snake,
agile as runningbacks,
can without feeling pressed
just take
in.
what comes your way, a lined in goldleaf
presed suit of wool
serged to prevent unraveling,
in just your size.
what enters my picture but the
Cadillac of purses, an Eco
filled with ample bills to back
my every bet.
life gives all (we need), at no cost to us
but the time energy and passions
we spend receiving it.
your bad back and jaundice,
my migraines and suspicion are
no thang, baby, when we
don’t make things of them.
summer flowers smile tenfold,
each direction
while we mutter over cold soup.
we are eating our soup!
how is that?
winter flowers screaming drown in
ice of winters gaze,
let us drown, in ecstacy
of each others' wars, and wage.
the rest the year, come spring,
(change), come autumn, change accordingly.
but weep each December! weep
openly in April!
weep!
you’re still here, pretending
happiness is for fools not kings?
your glass is full, and we (all)
are your audience. speak, king!
(or truly weep).
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
if you will allow a Bree pome
if you will allow
that life is a
teacher
and a pretty sexy one
then you
will understand
poems
that life is a
teacher
and a pretty sexy one
then you
will understand
poems
Friday, August 19, 2011
The Rainbow Sweater & My Mother
The Rainbow Sweater & My Mother has arrived via US Mail. u can order a copy here which has a secure checkout for credit cards, or thru paypal to greenpandapress@gmail.com, or mail a check made out to Green Panda Press 3174 Berkshire Rd. Cleveland Hts., OH 44118.
the book is two memoirs in a single volume dealing with sex, LSD, chronic pain, marriage, Buddhism & daughterhood. an excerpt is available here.
the book is two memoirs in a single volume dealing with sex, LSD, chronic pain, marriage, Buddhism & daughterhood. an excerpt is available here.
pomes
Sometimes a Stoner
There are people who
buy beautiful plants
& forget to water them;
end up with a lot of pot.
Touring Chapel Hill
The ant moves quickly
wherever he goes.
Unlike my husband.
Unlike any shopper at
the Southern Season where
everything you don't
need is on sale and
you still don't want it.
Hot (Painted)
sounds crazy but i like yore heat
Channel 5 calls oppressive, FOX News
says it is 'dangerous'
but i sit in you, get hot
as hot
can and
wait (ever)still
for yore breeze which comes
on and coats, evens me.
An Eternity at Target
I know how to find my husband.
Listen for his cough, unlike
another's.
Look for the first slow gait,
up the aisles
be damned, but if it ain't
him already, looking for me
(and proud) of his one-off
find,
me checking out
those same old begs a pardon,
but has he been holding on
to them smile the whole
time there eyes.
There are people who
buy beautiful plants
& forget to water them;
end up with a lot of pot.
Touring Chapel Hill
The ant moves quickly
wherever he goes.
Unlike my husband.
Unlike any shopper at
the Southern Season where
everything you don't
need is on sale and
you still don't want it.
Hot (Painted)
sounds crazy but i like yore heat
Channel 5 calls oppressive, FOX News
says it is 'dangerous'
but i sit in you, get hot
as hot
can and
wait (ever)still
for yore breeze which comes
on and coats, evens me.
An Eternity at Target
I know how to find my husband.
Listen for his cough, unlike
another's.
Look for the first slow gait,
up the aisles
be damned, but if it ain't
him already, looking for me
(and proud) of his one-off
find,
me checking out
those same old begs a pardon,
but has he been holding on
to them smile the whole
time there eyes.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)