My newest article was published today. Have a look.

The Lifeblood That Drives the Dreams of Champions
Kevin Gosa
Finding culture in the most unlikely places.

it never ends now the
music in my head an
ostinato senza cesura
drowns out
me
and epiphany so my existence
persists in that twilight where
desires seek satiation and
i no longer know what wait
means as i am overrun
by access and wishes granted
and touch or tap or slide
a single finger to have
what for that moment i
think i lack though all
i need is stillness and
a silent mind or a nothing
between just one crossfade
between stop and play
when plastic sounds mean
a cassette thumbed to b-side
is all that is and it makes me
pause
and in those seconds
hear my own song which
betrays an unquenched longing
for limitation as gift
which gives me me again
when whims see not limits
cravings pursue satisfaction
by tireless shuffling for
perfect quaffs which have not
come and will not until
i awake to remember that
what is next is vaporous if
i pass over what is here
and cannot find peace in
hearing a tape deck click

So, it’s true that there has been a lack of poetry up on the site these days.  But it’s not for a lack of writing.  Today marks the launch of a new online magazine, The Curator (a pulication of International Arts Movement), for which I am a contributing editor.

My first piece is about rock and roll, changing the world, and the great Les Paul.

Add it to your RSS. It promises to be always be a worthwhile read.

i wish i would read the new yorker
on the subway and appear as smart and
savvy as she next to me from whom
i hide these words as i write

(tilting my notebook leftward
with an ever-increasing incline
forcing pen ink to defy
gravity to stick to the page)

as i write
about her and her reading habits and savviness
while a homeless man delivers his verse
in the land of the blind

In the land of the blind
no one sees the forest for the trees
so their all cut down in the name of safety

delivers his verse with all the panache
of a homeless man

In the land of the blind
a haystacked needle pricks before its found
and that fleshy pound might be two or three

of a homeless man singing
poems on a subway car

In the land of the blind
people still get on their knees to worship their celebrities
and broken eyes stare at tvs anyway

and i wonder if my verse

In the land of the blind
stars go ungazed; plays unplayed and
trails will forever be unblazed

if my verse will one day be read

In the land of the blind
crooked and straight seem the same and
every leader leads mankind in vain

be read by the smart and savvy

In the land of the blind
every cry for help is words and everyone
is unsure if the suffering they heard is true

or heard by another young stealth poet
as i beg

But in the land of sight
these things are plain and we all see who is lame
and hear me asking “brother, spare some change?”

exiled from your brethren
and your maker by
those who hate your voice

i almost didn’t find you this time

banished there to rusted
desolation under dying tree
a single leaf falling
brings no life to your iron stillness

though you still call
come and sing with me
take hold of me and ring
for do not touch does not apply

a less naked shade might conceal
your song more to their liking

but winter is my friend

i move in that barrenness
toward slivers of cold sunlight
cutting cross your name

for chris 2004

i am chris now

my hands drag fraying rope
and the tolling sprints
over brittle grass acres
to fill their ears
with rebellion’s sound
a triumphal siren that
drowns protestant screams

if i took a rational
only-fools-think-people-rise-from-the-dead
position

if there had been objective witnesses of the
disinterested-in-the-deadness-or-aliveness-of-the-party-in-question
variety

if paperwork had been filed by an authority of the
professionally-certified-to-confirm-death-and-or-life-remaining
type

like for Jarod who
hangs an official certificate
written by a paramedic
above his desk
a souvenir of his resurrection
from a three minute absence and a death cheated

to have been gone three days and
then at supper sunday evening
would mean he’d have killed death and
taken from it keys to (dare i)
eternal life

that is a hope far too great
for the rational
only-fools-think-people-rise-from-the-dead mind

are you

abandoned abused bitter
broken depressed desperate
gay lonely poor
self-loathing spiteful
tragic troubled

yearning for change
discontent dejected
rejected injected
insane (though only a little)

egotistical egomaniacal
pyromaniacal nymphomaniacal
or otherwise sex-obsessed

abhorred by
culture church family
or struggling to function
in society at large

if so

send in a lifetime’s expression
of inexpressibles and wording wordlessness
send in your soul carved
black blue red and
bringing life to sheets of dead tree

and languish on poet

(happy people and lumberjacks need not apply)

Kitchen’s
Ambrosial
Refreshment
Ever
Needed

Bellies

Languish
Amid
Cookie
Yearnings

Silken white buries
A darkness we want hidden
Come snow, clean our world

Each fragile snowflake
Plots to pile its beauty’s weight
‘Til I surrender

Acrid and salty
I remember mother’s words
Don’t eat yellow snow