Michael Tyrell Almost spring, & our dictator’s new order: everyone in our country must French-kiss the frozen utility poles— the boulevards become maypoles of muffled wailing, move too much & you lose the mind, to keep the tongue & the mind pick a word to keep in your mind, blunt like starve or trowel or cudgel, say it will be coming up crocuses soon those clouds not the shoulders of ice-storms,...

Michael Tyrell For Rachel Wetzsteon (1967-2009) The friend, the late formalist who slips into my last REM cycle— whose new language I can’t get or hear in the swarming dream-terminal, but it’s urgent to try, there’s something she must tell me now, holding my wrist rougher than she means to— leaving a mark I know you won’t believe. You’ll say I’m wrong, it’s crazy, the wrist’s barely black & blue. As usual,...

As we await release of his forthcoming collection, "The Wanted," Brooklyn poet Michael Tyrell debuts and reads three new poems.

Our recent event at the Howmet Playhouse was a huge success. A special thanks goes out to all of the artsits and all who attended. We truly appreciate those who support our endeavor and believe in the importance of artistic ventilation. I’m sure Ben has more to say about the event, but for the time being, have a look at my photos from the night. ...

An Evening with the Clarity Saturday, June 25th 2011 – 7:30PM Howmet Playhouse, Whitehall MI Music: The Great Unknown Singing in the Abbey Fred Thomas Readings: John Hemingway Michael Tyrell $2 Microbrews Tickets are $10.00 and are available here or by calling 231.670.7033   Credit Cards Accepted Single Ticket (1)...

Order the print collection of poetry, fiction, and visual art two years in the making featuring the work of Benjamin Percy, Joe Meno, Terese Svoboda, John Hemingway, Bruce Smith and many others. “The work in Fogged Clarity doesn’t stomp its foot and shout look at me, I’m so clever and inventive and fresh, it just is clever and fresh – and extremely moving … Let me make it perfectly clear: this is the first, but...

Michael Tyrell Continually, as October weeds out the majority of false Edens, the hollow Eve finds us sweet teeth bobbing for apples. Scratch us so we can start over, so we can turncoat through iron-maiden turnstiles. Crosstown ride where the Lord give uth and take uth away, flasher whose jimson got jammed in slamming doors. We might miss an apocalyptic eclipse, but the river-frontiers burst in the Eerie Canals. House and Garden...

Michael Tyrell With you, hushed pal, in hideous library atrium in winter. Your winter not my hypothermia, your changed-topic hush not my silent treatment, your engine not my station. Thank you, powerless chum, maybe I’m sorry? Only a leather couch we sit on, not the blood ox skinned for it, only the army of bookworms murmuring through metal detectors and not a pack for a lover to cut a rival from. Returned volumes thud in their...

Michael Tyrell I’m stuck again, not bleeding like a stuck pig but waiting for results in the HMO waiting room, stuck where praying is more counting than praying. The mother puts her finger to her small lips, quieting her small boy. Her small boy locks his lips with the invisible key, drops it to the floor. Keep your eyes peeled, my mother once told me. Bug-gut smeared on the leaves of Prevention, the crossword done. Rolled up my...

The two NYC poets discuss poetry, language, and the city they love.