Biography of A.j. Binash
A.j. Binash is a post-post-post-modernist poet from La Crosse, WI. He has released a book of poetry entitled Cautionary Tales of an American Boy Out Past Curfew (Rattlesnake Valley Publishing) . He has also been featured in the W.F.O.P. (Wisconsin Fellowship of Poets) Muse- Letter and Murmurations Magazine.
Also a performer-Binash has shared the stage with Acker award winning poet William Taylor Jr. and Grammy award winning musician Bill Miller. Currently working on a new manuscript, Binash will be releasing books for years to come. If time allows.
A.j. Binash's Works:
Cautionary Tales of an American Boy Out Past Curfew
A.j. Binash Poems
I sat in my car Outside the Goodwill Playing with distorted shadows
In All Honesty
The nurse led me from the waiting room Into a neutral white room She instructed me to sit I did as told
You Get What You Deserve
Last night we spoke About our dead child. A whiskey slur stuck to the corner of my mouth I tried to touch the moment with useful words
Tupac Isn'T Dead
1. In the 1st world, our reactions to life are discovered out of boredom. In the rest of the world, their reactions are our entertainment.
Can I Talk
I want a mute To give me advice On the bravery
Dying Sheriff. Dying Thief.
He coughs. Blood splatters in a neat row of red dots. Inches from the badge, on his breast pocket. Another unfinished sentence, punctuated by multiple periods. -Ere’s what I think. I think I should shoot ya. Right ere, right naw. I could shoot ya. In the head. But I think all the thieven ya done, is up there, up there in yir head. Just waitin ta get out. That be the last sight I git.
Some Children Are Better Off
Her mother would chase her own shadow. Sprinting footsteps created vibrations That shook the kitchen cabinets.
I Am Shamed. I Am Drunk.
Like a shadow birthed From dawn-light's approach. I hide between the pink and red Of pollution's grandeur.
The Golden Calf Is Beautiful.
She kneels by her bedside. Wrinkles the linens Draped across her mattress. By placing folded fingers
Creatures Of The Night
I think of no. That is, I think of amphetamine ghosts Patrolling these streets.
The Toilet Is blushing feces. Urine is leaking
Mother Nature's Sex Crime
I picked two leaves off a tree And folded them Until they appeared as Puckered lips.
Enjoying Beer In Hell
This summer was the hottest on record. I was drunk throughout most of it.
The Library Is A Utopia For The Homeless...
Mark perfected his scowl. A slanted-eye-squint. Accentuated by crow’s feet, Stretching to his ears.
In The Vertical Hours
Seconds are measured in footsteps
Progress is judged by the time it takes
To accumulate what we want
And how fast it takes to get it
When the shaking fingers
Oscillate the wind
Into a hurricane of command
The vertical hours