Thomas Sayers Ellis: “In 2005 I commissioned artist/poet, poet/artist Krista Franklin to make a few writing books, a total of 4, for me to give to friends as gifts. I kept one, the one with Shirley Chisholm on the cover. It also features a spine of Wilma Rudolph postage stamps and a few Langston Hughes and Marian Anderson stamps on the back. I haven’t written in it yet, but it’s Heroes time!”
All their fences All their prisons All their exercises All their agendas All their stanzas look alike All their metaphors All their bookstores All their plantations All their assassinations All their stanzas look alike All their rejection letters All their letters to the editor All their arts and letters All their letters of recommendation All their stanzas look alike All their sexy coverage All their literary journals All their car commercials All their bribe-spiked blurbs All their stanzas look alike All their favorite writers All their writing programs All their visiting writers All their writers-in-residence All their stanzas look alike All their third worlds All their world series All their serial killers All their killing fields All their stanzas look alike All their state grants All their tenure tracks All their artist colonies All their core faculties All their stanzas look alike All their Selected Collecteds All their Oxford Nortons All their Academy Societies All their Oprah Vendlers All their stanzas look alike All their haloed holocausts All their coy hetero couplets All their hollow haloed causes All their tone-deaf tercets All their stanzas look alike All their tables of contents All their Poet Laureates All their Ku Klux classics All their Supreme Court justices Except one, except one Exceptional one. Exceptional or not, One is not enough. All their stanzas look alike. Even this, after publication, Might look alike. Disproves My stereo types.
All Their Stanzas Look Alike by Thomas Sayers Ellis
13. things you said at the kitchen table or 23. things you said [make your own] for the ship fic ask meme!
13. things you said at the kitchen table
you keep your chemistry things in a box under the sink, my room, a spotted bee
i’m looking through the window to the sight of you passing me the pasta three years ago and i’m complaining about the state of the living room you tell me how you singed your fingers burnt hair milk in the sink
you don’t know me anymore you fold napkins
you weren’t saying it because i wasn’t saying it but now, (through the window)
our wings don’t work and we can’t say anything at all