Wound Care

Not even the Mexican saints can see how you unbutton your shirt tonight to show me the ghost of a zipper the sawbones left, taking back their staples. All your summer the taking out, sherd by sherd, a kind of dig, the slug he left you with, the rent-a-cop gunning for his baby mama, who… More

Glass Zodiac, 1996

There’s a reason the astronomy prof said we don’t as we don’t remember our birth remember the first eye we look into or else it remembers us all Remember he went on Galileo’s tragedies they will be on your final disbelief failure punishment disgrace naming names almost turning the self in but what do we… More

Letter from Long Island

“People always say they’ll write [letters], but they never do.” —Alice Doesn’t Live Here Anymore Today, M., I rode the S59 bus to Sayville, that typically kinder iteration of our one-traffic-light hyphenated station-name hometown, and though I wasn’t looking for him I did the Catholic gestures when I noticed the statue Jude, patron of dashed-hope… More

Hemingway

In Genoa, the city where the Mary Celeste never arrives every day, the hour to become a ghost isn’t necessarily noon— it’s when the young American student named Hemingway reads, in the plaza, The Collected Stories of her namesake— reads the story of the white elephant hills again, the story of the bickering lovers who… More

Letters Written Near the End of the Cold War

Michael Tyrell I wonder if you’ve seen them on the hospital TV— children on talk shows who swear live inside them the entire populations of small countries. * Multiples, abreactions— big, formless hands make multiples, it’s like they smash a shark tank and take all the glass, then make something that walks and talks like… More

A Conversation with Michael Tyrell

Long one of our favorite artists and dearest friends, poet Michael Tyrell sits down for a Sunday morning discussion about his new poems, em dashes and Donald Justice. More

Level Entries

Michael Tyrell Casual Fridays I’m promoted to a ghost desk to type in figures in computer grids. Required fields. Expenses. Hewlett Packard. Hellwit Packet. To hell with slim pickings, pack it in son, you backpack bastard. It’s not the heat it’s the stupidity. Leavings, really, no better than condiments, and only when I can get… More

Women & Children

Michael Tyrell The tedium of six-hour drives to a summer house at Lake Hopatcong with the sister-in-law who hates you— no conversation, sometimes music— a song called ‘Satisfaction’ about not getting any, the baby, the niece, cutting teeth in the backseat— the test cry, nothing sustained, no tears. The brother who lives at the office… More

Son & Heir

Michael Tyrell The heirs will not consent—from an 1853 English telegraphing guide, called The Traveler’s Vade Mecum; or Instantaneous Letter Writer. The day I stop wishing for his money—cut myself From his unwritten will—rub out the rainy-day faces From the piggybank riches that can only be mine— Then I’ll be alone with my body—my disinherited… More

Photos – An Evening With The Clarity

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… More

An Evening With The Clarity (II)

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) $10.00 More

Fogged Clarity 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… More

First Frost, New York

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.… More

Platonic Ode

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… More

Luminol

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… More