Weeds grow where they want to; not where they're told to...


Two books fromConnor Stratman

Postlude: Psalm with Coffee


“Commune with your own heart upon

   your bed, and be still.”   Psalm 4:4


I don’t live safe, and the window spreads

cold in a closed state. Mark me, you cup,

my melting ice, the disappearing music

down the street, the closeness of smoke.


                         I am rationing sunlight—

calling in little drops of freezing moisture,

ticketed against the distant electric train

buzzing against snowlight, lifting away

to the park. The chair here low and tight.


I am going to walk home and smell a

vague hallway and touch my rosary.

The cup will be cooling and my own

hands will shake with the absent heat.


And with a medium prayer I’ll

see large, be large. Large like sand.








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128 pages Perfect Bound!


The outright winner of the 2010 erbacce-prize for poetry!

A brilliant poet from across the pond this is a MUST BUY especially at this bargain price for a full-length collection.




I made the impression of a neutral face on the

chilled window of the train car. There flew the

images of the tracks and the trees swinging over

the roof, the sailor tied to the girl on his shoulder,

the way the afternoon winter sun leaks, not pours

down the tops of buildings and the leaves, the old

smoke reversing into the air, blending into the gray

of the big cold, the way I step off on the platform.




Imported from Ethiopia


The ship stopped short of the shore.

Somehow you remembered to rolls the sails

pouring beans into the sea’s mouth,

our country sanding away forward.


I called from the street, the world turned

with record scratches and pixilation.


I was guilty of spitting against

my crate, the lonesome apartment

drawn in the twenties I now

fear to set on fire. It still stands.




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