The wheels just come off, sometimes, seen in the right — or wrong frame of mind. The world feels like an incredibly intricate, interlinked pool table. In one such frame of mind, […]
I remember everything… I remember everything I remember everything promise, vow, commitment, engagement Name it Kept every one, no exceptions Afloat in mild night air, seventeen I knew I’d love her for […]
Death Walks a Shit-Scarred Lane was written from memory, mine and/or someone else’s, the brutal reality clear as it came to me.
Memory’s not disposable. Not chunks of plastic floating in the ocean, it is an ocean. David Stone is a New York City based writer whose book titles include 21 Poems and Traveling Without A Passport.
Truths are neither remote nor difficult to find. They lay there in plain sight, sunlight shining down on them, even in the darkest night.
You are un-directing the passage, right? You are non-navigating the ship I feel, in long hysterical drifts that I am on the formless threshold of […]
It’s just that coming home around six a.m. I knew this place was Rome four days after the sacking I imagined the rescue of the children hustled out of a crashing courtyard […]
Our guests had gone home, hours ago. Dishes done, drying on the rack, you lounged in one of our old chairs, reading God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater. A lamp hung a lemon […]
we wait for snow at a barn dancebrave men on some god-forsaken bridge we wait for snow where a gas jockey pumpsa stream of pink horses into infinity, 1920
You Look in the Mirror and See Ulysses S. Grant Poetry by David Stone Take Grant’s Union Army, for example, lumbering south through Virginia trampling everything good and decent after Robert E. […]