The High Place How many winters gone And how many remain? I’ve seen seedlings Grow to be masts of great ships Felled by men with rum-warmed Bellies Into gentle beds of Evergreen boughs How many more times Will the tamarack fade into A golden amber bouquet That reminds me of the many Sorrows of being […]Read more "The High Place"
An Animal or a God Paint glistens yellow in the night rain, dark Bacardi pours easy over ice. Like the ghostly colonials of Apocalypse Now— lost to France, dying in Vietnam, I’m stranded in this tiger wilderness. Half-awake, sleep leeched by dread sense, I avoid the sun, seal doors and blinds against mutations of neighbor […]Read more "An Animal or a God"
Christopher Greer is an educator and writer who lives in Alpharetta, GA. His work has appeared in, or is forthcoming from, Canary, Clarion, Inwood Indiana, and other small journals. He holds an MS from Purdue University. For Tituba How your body must’ve glittered under ceremonial moonlight, unapologetically glowing, wet with wondrous blasphemy. Unchained elation bleeding from the […]Read more "For Tituba"
Booze Writing She writes the non-fiction marathon, grabs her metaphysical hangover to record the distillers, blogs recipes for old martinis, notes where mezcal comes from. Serious, full-time writing about booze, barstools and body/mind benders. Codifying as a way to stop her bingeing. Is that how it goes with loneliness? Scrawling about virtuous alone as relief […]Read more "Booze Writing"
after Adrienne Rich fox danced between me and the very still water headed north past geese and white-beaked birds leaving V’s in the water, far from the cocker spaniel five minutes before or lighted towers brightening our left sides as we risky walked beneath darker skies, I felt the opaque absence of fear for her […]Read more "a standing still"