ditch,

the poetry that matters

Anton Frost

Anton Frost is a poet living in Grand Haven, Michigan.  His poetry has appeared in trnsfr Magazine, Word Catalyst, Cantaraville, and Walking Blind.  He received his Bachelor's Degree in English from Grand Valley State University in 2008.

in carnation

in the
   mi   st,
        d
in blur(red)
shap
       esof
 s Fo LI  uGH  nT   d
 s  o  (LI  u      n    d
s  o  u     nG  d
    s ou  nd H
  so und       T)
sound,
s
 lw
mo  t
      ion
sh
   atter:

t ouch
   suddenly
mo
   rethan
an im
 age,

you
ma king
     space
in 
   your
  war m
shapely
   occupation.











Nontitled

s(ee)ing life
is seeing a seri(ousn)es(s.)
of lines payed from light
out into invisibility.

a-wake.
a churning outward
of passage.

there is no saying
that a (wo)man with something
      ( w o
         r d l e s
                     s)
to say
can fully claim.

what do you see:
(a)bsolutely.
a(b)ject.
   (c)  utter.

you see:
(in turns)    human.
(re:)               condition.
:(:       :):(ex)hum(e)an condition.

music is an airless (ex)spa(ns)ce:
collaborative, measureless,
sounding out
what sur rounds it.

underwater,
a bubble
is indestructible,
broken up,
forced merely to abound.

ineffable
and inevitable
in English
sound similar for no reason
which we make out
reasonably.

"it's unspeakable.
unutterable."
"so write it down, then."

you wake and
construct a prism with your voice
and a b oa t of light from your hands.

sailor.
  sail, or will
the horizon to approach.
"a-hoy is the same thing
as a-vast, but you're holding
a  rope for rescue
instead of a sword for slaughter."

a shadow crosses
a field of wheat;
wind or cloud (dream of wind)
or a bird (dream of trees)
too close to the sun.

"meteoric rise,"
we say,
as everything be yond
falls into the sky.

dream (&) sequence:
escape
a(&)nd       order
si(tu)mult aneously.

the optimum oxymoron.

a coincidence--
a cooperation between echo
and silence.

somebody's son
woke the instant
you did

and abruptly died.
what did you do?

s(d)a(ring)fe to say..
you're dubbing
with your lips
with a thousand others
the same song.

with billions,
this new kind
of kissing
is inevitable.

people are everywhere.
wondering:
is a song
simply poetry
witho(p)ut t(o)he (mu)si(c)lence,

or is it something
more(+nothing-)
or less(-nothing+)?

with no one e(n)(on) titled to say,
there is no saying.

not speechless,
but ineffable.

"waiting
is for failures
who can't make up their minds."

no--
life.
you're thinking of life.

"c(    h )an't"
is merely an impossible process
through which we
proceed anyway.

waiting
is the means
for proceeding
impossibly.

our ine[ff](vit)ability
being kept off-track

somewhere

in our trackless
intuition:
some(there is
no saying.)
where









thrumming


myhead
windmilling [infant(ile)ry]
betw e(')en
my sh(e) oulders,

cantilevrd,
d[apple]d  :light
    thru (mming)me

colorme
    withmy
(w/str
    kn/L) ife

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