Glenn R. Frantz is a native of southeastern Pennsylvania (USA). His poems have appeared in publications such as Otoliths, BlazeVOX, Cricket, Arsenic Lobster, and Sawbuck. His e-chapbook We Are You is available from BeardOfBees.com.
I Have a Kitchen
The house knows when the slave is perfect.
As one end sees a snail's family.
It is the end that gets the tankard.
A dinner or supper with chalk into different compartments.
Not a broad tea egg was to be circumscribed.
After having a magistrate, she's our quiet glove.
I say, then, that it was not a house at all.
Also the name of the themes that grow gloves, in the itch.
One having misspoken, said my tongue evades my mouth.
But I seem took to drink by a sunken picklock.
We Feel the Collieries
Grit is a small place.
It always is.
The hoofs of cement wit are readily avoided; granite is swelled.
All materials were prohibited, so there was no reputation.
But this would be cheated.
It was he who had got the elevating slates.
Mixing concrete into an agricultural solution of fraud and evasions.
It establishes the labor pursuit of steam-turbines.
Next gives the constitution.
Ring the civilized world forward into barrows and training.
Rocks pretend to seize, to talk.
So it goes without saying that the years stalk rocks, queued.
What Plants Are You?
Annoyance, for principle, obviously people.
But you needn't say so.
The horizon is a youthful castle of intuition.
A little bleached, by my account!
It must have been a puppet-show.
False plants, that.
The waxy mushroom is better to the structural edge.
Whereas the cacti concrete.
Foundation wall for me, the four-story gardeners.
I make use of foliage.
It may be lop-sided, but I can swim like a pound.
All materials were scarce, so there was no conjuror.
Pickpockets were pioneers, avoiding the development of yesterday.
The gardeners were pioneers; abbreviated for pickpockets.
A plate of knives, and primrose blisters, waiting, mournful arroyo of breath, for a broken meal. Pale drops of warmth and tingling. A methodical sound of unseen beds, flannel homes, and he was silent. In a bench, sweeping tongues of slumber boots, with a soft stirring, reaching the raincoats and the stupefaction of a conclusion.
But the road was held to keep the wires in his sleeves. There was an immense, hollow melody of cedar building, a strange sound of wistful branches, when he recognized the perpendicular gloom of power in a buried lassitude.
He missed the swamp, with blunders and burnings, the cheerful passage, in quicksand. Nevertheless, the sweeping light in a blunt ripping of cactus, he reached the slanting covering of western dunes. As soon as he was gone, unoccupied thoughts of conscience.
As he remembered the incessant nature of warmth he missed the soft raincoats, the steel aspect of wistful branches, the perpendicular gloom of cactus and the prickling joints, the thorn road and nights of limb exasperated. The scents of cedar build, but the wires in quicksand part.
It was a prudent shadow, silent. Waiting, with a buried lassitude, in the tracks and burnings. When he left the blunders, loud and reliable blanket, sweeping tongues of unseen beds, in a breathless search, with, however, a methodical sound, a hollow melody of breath, through flannel homes.
As soon as he reached the swamp, absorbed in ruins, there was a broken ledge, stood in a blunt ripping of caution. Fluted thoughts of knives of clear description, the truth that was tiring.
Photography is the bicentennial life of horsepower.
preserved interpretive contemplation
Oversee needles in the staff of water,
heard sometimes through effect of lakes.
up IS doWN
dn SI NMop
Or it might have been an impudent parasite on infinity.
speakably famished precision
qualify lifelike felt intention
Otherworldly flash reflection
accidentally from dark window,
in a scarf of squalls the blackest prism.
SHOW us suns
sn MOHS suns
stellated alternately attenuated
friendly irretrievable stretch