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 ...
He touched her when she was unripe
thirteen. He was twenty-one
On a movie set,
Gone with the wind.
And she was Scarlet between
Her tiny ears and shaking thighs.
Today she’s twenty-one and airily
Remembers his line, her que