the poetry that matters

PJ Nights 

PJ Nights was born and raised in the wild and ravishing state of Maine. She is the co-editor of two print anthologies, Women of the Web available from Sun Rising Press and from east to west: bicoastal verse (print edition #1) available at Lulu.com. Her poetry has appeared most recently in Ocho 10, Blue Fifth Review, Slow Trains, Panamowa:  A New Lit Order, and the Velvet Avalanche Anthology. Her personal website, which also features other poets updated every season, is from east to west: bicoastal verse at  http://www.geocities.com/pj_nights.


three madmen nest between her breasts 



suddenly all the green in the garden

       is           missing

the waters of far off reservoirs

       march   a-

               way leaving table wine


the last royal lily, picked the day before,


sits conversely

                              on her table

amidst asparagus with aioli

and other

            fabricated things

that would gladly

                     tell lies

of takahe on the wing        decayed


detritus of the back alleyway

dismantles her demeanor

the unexpected,



                    vers are no longer

      connected to her   she is no longer


affected by his strike of lethal force


exhibit #1:  peyote







exhibit #2:  a smoking pistil and stamen


exhibit #3:  old-fashioned pink

      wet  words unwithered

strand by strand,


            the night undoes her braids







brews a pot of espresso beyond the grey line

of gravestones      shows the chapfallen city

in its exploration for the fox


               cradling her apparition



    she talks the performance,

( not your good buzz

      – the operator of natural selection –

but your cheek on the cantaloupe at breakfast

       saying       off to the orange bathhouse )



  you are she

        and the crystal texture will be worshipped

though when you’re poor, not enough         / there are not



                              of us /



her confirmations arise from eden’s

       girlfriends        on the fuzzy mosses

   with their boudoir sensitivities



          I am not


                            enough people



 out of context, the tree nymphs

      let slip   (before the cows of casuistry)

the post office box number of log and nursery


      oxygen and log  – incendiary –

         she longs for lovely bones





falls glorified 


if the end is not full





      intentions, my other life sees

       you in sails

  a run of perfume

in the book almost are

    are you there

   a summer explanation

full of I know me knot    walls overflowering

   you, not the book of poems

hoisted blue, descending to sad endings


if it goes

           to a winter river

   to flowers in moist blue

a brief stop at headquarters of stars      the insane

 dilutes everything good, almost

as we run      see Summer wants love wants

          as if sinking

that always destination     almost to me



       Is love

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