Eulogy Press

They’re not tweets,

They’re postmodern sculptures

Beneath cerulean skies...

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Tim Dodd's acerbic new collection of poetry does not give the reader a warm welcome—the epigraph is taken from Raymond Chandler: "And the commercials would have sickened a goat raised on barbed wire and broken beer bottles."...

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Can                                    I

touch                                 your

hair?                                  Place

my                                    hand

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for three days, breathing

the same air. for a short hour,

standing in the same flurries.

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terrestrial shiver 

cross comfort    

flower thick by name by map by 

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It was a Facebook memory that found me on Jade’s page. I’d been deleting the memories for as long as I could remember but could never seem to get rid of them all. In her profile photo she was posing with a leg kicked up, smelling a sunflower...

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Always a space

Out there in the world

A large thicketed field

Overgrown with weeds

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Congratulations are in order!

Recently, you were elected

To the Bum of the Month Club,

And it wasn’t even close.

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                    it is  built

    into our DNA.   

    ordinary language reveals        implicit conversance with

              parts that are not cohesive—

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Been drinking too hard

for too long

and I got the fear

as the Irish boys say

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My submissions rhyme with 

my nocturnal emissions and maybe this is a guy thing but

when I send out my stuff

when I put my stuff out there

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Dad, 

Why is there a picture of you having sex with a woman less than half your age on AltAdultX?

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none of your names is an aptonym:

a reflection of your character.

yesterday, i ripped you

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Redistribution of souls is how William looked at death

Culling of herds was frequent fodder for elder Bill

All shunning had been completed

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Adrian Sobol's second collection of poetry, Hair Shirt, is an energetic book, full of panache and pizzazz and without the frippery often found in the sophomore books of younger poets. Sobol chews up a lot of territory here—we go from seas, to mouths, to animals of varied stripe: a donkey, wiener dog, the worlds smartest horse (named Gorgeous Allegheny Slim)...

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I told him I didn’t want to face the camera.

“Come on, it won’t be that bad,” Jeff said.

“My body is much better,” I said.

“We’ll see about that. Don’t worry...                

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I learned how to do it at fourteen,

that brutal undoing

of desire— a violent purification

ritual, my own;

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