Coyote Mercury

words, birds and whatever else by James Brush

Year: 2013 (page 1 of 7)

Driftwood at Right Hand Pointing

My erasure poem “Driftwood” (from a page in Poe’s “Fall of the House of Usher”) is up at Right Hand Pointing. It’s an honor to have my poem included in this fine issue celebrating found poetry. It was originally posted here along with a photo of the page I worked from including my marks and highlights. Thanks, Dale & Howie for publishing this one!

rain snicks the windshield
a monolog of keyboard clicks
books I’m not writing

11.21.13

we study the leaves
fallen beneath the oak tree
they’re brown, he says

Heavy machines clang near the animal shelter while cirrus wisps spiderweb the sky like the broken dirt caked against the curb.

11.11.13

a gray stone
shaped just like the moon
in his pocket

afternoon’s treasures
bang in the washer

November Microfiction 6-10

The backhoe hit something solid. The road workers grumbled to a stop and stared at the great metallic wings among the fossilized shells.

Terrified by what I’d built, I drowned my robot in the creek behind the house. At night, he returned. Said I never gave him lungs.

Just north of the border, traffic came to a stop. She practiced her smile, took his hand off her leg and put it back in the glovebox.

“Fox!” the boy called with little interest. He missed the days before budget cuts and downsizing when he had been the boy who cried wolf.

No way this thing should be able to fly. I mean who makes their own helicopters? I glance down at the ground and wish I’d learned to land.

///

These are originally posted on Twitter (@jdbrush). I’m trying to do one per day this month.

11.07.13 (videopoem)

autumn dragonfly
carried backwards on the wind
the pool is closed

///

I went for a walk at lunch today. That’s where I often gather my small stones. I found this one and, inspired by Angie Werren’s fine haiku videos, I made a video of it. I loved the simplicity of making this.

November Microfiction 1-5

He wore a hatful of moonlight and in the daytime pretended to ignore the inconvenient coyotes trailing him through the streets, howling.

Savage! The savage savage savagely savaged the other savages for their refusal to act as pronouns, prepositions, or conjunctions.

Years later, she opened the book and saw the letters had slid off the pages and clumped in the gutter. She pieced together a new scripture.

The leviathan, hungry for prophets, swam in ever-widening circles and considered the ursine shore, the polar bear market.

The old astronaut in the tee box glanced at Cygnus. He was go for the black hole in one. It was a par 3.1555787×10e18, but he felt lucky.

///

These are originally posted on Twitter (@jdbrush). I’m trying to do one per day this month.

cold sunlight
rakes across the grass
shadow deer

windshield wipers
slap the gray curtain
taillights fade

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