The poet, professor, and author reads several of his favorite poetic exerts. His writings often argue for radical inclusivity especially on the topic of queerness.
Publish Date: May 11, 2021
The poet, professor, and author reads several of his favorite poetic exerts. His writings often argue for radical inclusivity especially on the topic of queerness. CAconrad offers workshops and conducts lectures all of the US.
a spider's web is made of digested fly brains, wings, hairs, legs, tears, pheromones, attracting more flies dissolve against into the endeavor of love, hold me to your song. It is delicious. Here you! One more time in middle of night, tooth it open, love all unloved parts without pause. Dear ghost flickering with flames that no longer hurt, deflated lungs expanding. You say they can only burn a faggot once when you died the way you died. It was contaminating a new danger of being lost and insecure. But reality can never be avoided forever at the same moment. Who is afraid of whom the killers are? My beloved? Our guilt of my continued song, desire is not what we achieve. Its a knife, often carving the wrong way or racking in the alchemy of a mood. I should never trade youth for poetry's residents of aging, but I can put every poem I ever wrote in a pile and burn them if you would appear on the other side, You're rapists were the last to taste you in this world. Their breath and terror down down your neck keeps me up at night. But which page of the bible says to burn the faggot after you force him to give you your pleasure. Each time I drink water drop from clouds, water, they burned out of your body. I cut my hands to catch you in the revenge dream, I behead one of them spell your name on my face with his blood. The other is begging as I choke him his neck as soft as your neck. I pull him off at the knees. Check for tattoos. Is it him? Is it you? I miss you. I love you. My need to attack your killers. This is where I failed you. I should give them a trophy. A faggot killing trophy. They won, jesus, loving faggot killers always win. How strong was my failure to keep you alive? I am sorry coming out the golden head of dandelion smashing through cement universe expanding a cruel speed. Sorry hogs room in the stomach horizon. We let into our eyes. Can only finish this poem with those eyes smashed through cement. Lonely and sick with glory of the bloom. How about just three more envelope. Crystal swallow. Crystal thrust crystal up my ass. To distract from 10,000 worries. Few things tire me more than imagining reincarnation, A child struggling all over again to not favor war, not surrender to greed. The spirit of your flowers is my favorite shelter. We were in. Love is the main thing, faintest green light entry pulls me forward whenever life is beautiful, makes me think of. You carry color of the forest to be with you, to belong to this world, with you to have what we have. And that is it. Yes, the present is between the past and future, but it's too radical to be called the middle dear Earth. It is okay to not roll the stone back uphill. We rent memory storage in the world you left behind. Little wonder in this Della broken treaties, daisies bend under our slightest breath. You did not answer after you died. It is when I learned to be lonely everywhere between dreaming and crying until it calcified and fell off.