Braden Coucher Poems
|2.||The Dog Shadow||5/15/2011|
|3.||The Drive Through||5/15/2011|
|5.||Tree's Poem To Dead Mother||5/15/2011|
|6.||Everything Is Nothing||5/15/2011|
|10.||No One Reads The Novels||5/15/2011|
|11.||Not Dreaming In Color||5/15/2011|
|17.||There's Something About Drinking||5/15/2011|
|20.||We Learn To Sell Ourselves Early In Life||5/15/2011|
|23.||The American Flag, While We Lie||5/15/2011|
|24.||In Fez With Pablo Neruda||5/15/2011|
Comments about Braden Coucher
Half gone in memories of banjos and whiskey bottles
I flapped the wings of debauchery in the wind
of a sandy summer stained storm: There! I loved her,
She with feathery voice and small lovely head, I loved her
differently as snake to salamander.
I remember long banging, smashing nights,
in the streets when all the sound was just storm and
movements only a flickering, shape-shifting breeze.
I’d Torn into the poet’s craft like a drunken farmer into his disobedient wife,
I grabbed the words and mangled their sounds: speech
becoming clay becoming rock and then ...
The Drive Through
My father drives on, the rising sun
Just forward of his blind spot,
Pale faced and downward beaming
ear to ear into the flats of salt, then arches.
We eat, break, fast, drink
beer, soda or soft
drinks and I hold his hand.
America changes to wale skin