POEM

We tusk, we shed, we blaze, 
we pig. And so the sense hardens, 
becomes obsidian deep in our souls, 
but there are no souls, there is none -- 

but they do exist, another says,  
leagued with this being which is catastrophe, 
which is always the same ceaseless state 
of breaking, of falling, graveling down 

to ravine the hoard-waters that glide
there, that flay. The flowers, 
open and deliquescent, that bend. 
Grasses that move. 

POEM

I wanted 
a hat. 
Once, long ago, 
I had a hat. 

PLAYS INVERSE ANNOUNCEMENT OF FORTHCOMING WORKS

Here is an announcement of forthcoming works from Plays Inverse. 

Visit their website: 

http://www.playsinverse.com/catalog.html






Thank you for supporting the small, independent presses. 

Jon Cone