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poetry

Yew Nork by Dale Jensen

Reading Yew Nork made me feel like I was huddled beneath the streetlamps of Paris gathered with Surrealist poets, André Breton and Benjamin Péret smoking Galloises. Except this was possibly New York’s Gotham City and Dale Jensen was my guide.

Autumnal

Maples wrap branches around my rib cage,
a trap of orange and gold leaves filter translucent light,
and like an unsuspecting moth, I’m sucked in

Ile de Plaisir

Let us sing of heroes, inducted into a land of zombies,
vampires, crooked cops, drug dealers, military forces of occupation,
each room set up to teach another cruelty of the human heart