11 | james sanders

thomas kinkade painter of light


what if TV chose the forest? The intermediary, minking a lanky facticity along with him, outside laced it actingly with stylish excess and utensils. He wumped through the moistless doorway, his shoes imposing the sane pattern with the same force and the lights up in the ceiling failing to erase sizzingly in moans the brown. Happy Meals arc in priss. or whom a gradual declining routine zooms more or less clearly through certain slots, discovering a fresh flesh-toned surface, someone clapped into caring almost furtively like a missing hand in a see-thru sock, perspiration spangling through the seams. By snickers you mean the candy bar. The coily things were different on you. The branches in polites and statics whiten with emphasis the immediacy. Wet they mean. The personal clung stew. In a sense there was no view on them. Falling asleep on a bed of exclamation points. And as they took the field their mouths didn’t stop, the black tubes burrowing the slinky air. They arranged their fingernails all along the floor, vertically, and let the shine fill in as himly as the ampersands the weeds murmur mirthed out of forests. This transparent cave parceled through the english and continuity, younged off doing tones. Copy of hoot. The hair tongueing about the tweet. That’s the periodic in-slurp at the angle between unmatched faces and yesses. i.e., that which forms the fiber spiffing them up.


james sanders lives in Atlanta, GA. He belongs to a writing collective called the Atlanta Poets Group. They edit some publications collectively, among them the online sound poetry magazine, aslongasittakes. His most recent book-length publication is Goodbye Public and Private (BlazeVox Books). The group also has an anthology forthcoming from University of New Orleans Press titled An Atlanta Poets Group Anthology: The Lattice Inside.