The Poetry of
Michael G. Khmelnitsky

the film roll returns to me blank
I take the backstreets to avoid the cruel world

the grass grows unruly  its countenance
an untranslated rune  no matter

they name streets after that sort of thing
where I live  they say thank you but mean mercy


good memories should always keep in sight
but in the shot something strange

about the fine hairs
at the back of your head

something familiar in the nape
in the spine a warning


the man getting paid to stand stock still
stands stock still

i want to get drunk on you
I telegraph my glottal stops

the spider watches in the filament
why must distance


what is it like to have faith
what do you mean barcs has bight

the hen pecks grain by grain
the two mechanical goats butt heads

in the city square
the ox turn'd butcher lets out


an unsprung mewl  I fertilize my garden
with the embers of the world

I talk to dirts  i like rains too
especially the noise

if there are words
i must read them


the men don hats and doff their sex
the night furls  concupiscent

the world shapes unworldy
is the pheasant pleasant

is the peasant plaisant
is the key stuck


the sky lays flat  a counterweight to soul
let's talk longer  sooner