| POEMS By Patrick Hurley ***there is no port of entry what atlas charts these saturnine territories?ingress is a dangerous fiction radioactive particles are ubiquitoustoxic energies fix our hopes but only choice computes ***these voices are not french and this is no paradisetry for a somber tone but mandatory laugh tracks will make mockuneasiness like incessant drumming on the hollow reeds of deconstructionexperience shears off limbs at oblique anglesthere is something in the east but its name is unpronounceable ***gross appetites do not always mislead learn each name only to forget itsounds strike from odd angles reminding the incredulous that life might be after all one long allergic reaction ***dark coincidence under overcast skies metaphysics and meteorology will collideutter meaningless enjoys unspeakable density ***malevolent gestures dissipate as reason lurches towards its final resting placethe once nourishing loaves of conventional wisdom are ergot-laden slices of spasmodic madnessvoices raised in prayer spark now in the animal heart only terror |
 | Patrick Hurley was born in an unimportant midwestern American city in 1969. After wasting several years in graduate school, he published a book on Thomas Pynchon and taught writing and literature at a few colleges in Saint Louis, Missouri. He is now a full-time bartender and poet, currently obsessed with a long poetry collection in progress called Walking. He lives and works in Saint Louis. |