Chris Connelly is a poet who lives in New York City.
And I think of my old life One after one all the life before the era of us the grinding voices fall silent it seems so foreign and finally I am familiar so close and remote master of my own house here where like the house across the street no one is home empty and […]
you are red I am blue It is an electro- magnetic field one cannot see it but one can feel it There are zones of invisible foam rubber balls stand-offishness and zones of unmanageable elastics inevitable attraction I get dizzy the doctor’s nail is jaundiced as now a neck a knee place and time a […]
Sleepless a cloud of mosquitoes Pieces of man stem lifts from the lake’s mirror polished floor with filtered branch work rises among black branches is fallen and now lies crosses out through the forest out over the earth with roots hunts through the land hovering high in the air in shifting formations yet stuck into […]
I scratch the ground My mind is a thousand a swarm of ants grinding voices that dart off and loudly discuss toward all the world’s thoughts I thought corners were private only there where I scratched Are there none What is found what as light here through the branches what now seethes over moss and […]
I have seen a tunnel before of ashes that opens itself seen its abyss of golden-gold light heart throbbing I have taken the first step into the tunnel then the light enclosed me and I cowered a beachcomber in the pale yellow tread wheel under-furrowed filled with flowing wounds that hung like fog sateless sorrow […]