It is not the cold hands
of winter, nor evenings
spent drinking soju,
which make me shout
at birds and throw stones
at the moon.
It is not geometry which
keeps my heart from being
touched. It is not
the sea urchins weeping
within my skull.
Like rabid wolverines and
the children of crack whores,
Time itself is rather
surly and perverse.
David Kowalczyk lives and writes in the one-stoplight cannery town of Oakfield, New York. His poetry and fiction have appeared in seven anthologies and over one hundred magazines and journals, including California Quarterly, Istanbul Literary Review, St. Ann's Review, and Rumble. He has taught English in San Miguel de Allende, Mexico and Changwon, South Korea, as well as at Arizona State University. He was founding editor of the late Gentle Strength Quarterly.
of winter, nor evenings
spent drinking soju,
which make me shout
at birds and throw stones
at the moon.
It is not geometry which
keeps my heart from being
touched. It is not
the sea urchins weeping
within my skull.
Like rabid wolverines and
the children of crack whores,
Time itself is rather
surly and perverse.
David Kowalczyk lives and writes in the one-stoplight cannery town of Oakfield, New York. His poetry and fiction have appeared in seven anthologies and over one hundred magazines and journals, including California Quarterly, Istanbul Literary Review, St. Ann's Review, and Rumble. He has taught English in San Miguel de Allende, Mexico and Changwon, South Korea, as well as at Arizona State University. He was founding editor of the late Gentle Strength Quarterly.
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