Categories
Authors
Categories:   All Categories
Suggested keywords
x
Greg Correll
Subscribe to author Unsubscribe to author

Fellow at CUNY Writers Institute, 2017; worked closely with Leo Carey of The New Yorker, and J. Galassi at FSG. Work has appeared in Salon, The Good Men Project, CAPS 2016, Wallkill Valley Writers anthologies, and elsewhere. Won a CLIO for package design. Designed/ran 1st multimedia stage set at Avery Fisher in 1996. Engineered Yale's Climate...

Fellow at CUNY Writers Institute, 2017; worked closely with Leo Carey of The New Yorker, and J. Galassi at FSG. Work has appeared in Salon, The Good Men Project, CAPS 2016, Wallkill Valley Writers anthologies, and elsewhere. Won a CLIO for package design. Designed/ran 1st multimedia stage set at Avery Fisher in 1996. Engineered Yale's Climate Institute site/tools. Two short plays produced, one off-Broadway at Makor, one by Actors & Writers, upstate NY. Taught performance art at SUNY New Paltz, design at Marist. Have a memoir about being a 60s runaway, and sexual assault in jail at fourteen. Looking for an agent (who isn't?). Raised three ferocious, brilliant, feminist daughters with my best friend. Came out in 2015. Life is strange and wonderful.

More

last dream

I knew I wanted, was going to ask you

and I couldn't put my first foot forward

and now here we are, artless and ingenuous.

Your deliberate phrases fly, flutter around us,

wake us from twosies hibernation, yet seize me with

can't, don't, won't. I invite you now to imagine

lucid dying: moments after breath and heart stop,

but brain’s on a hot wire: so,  do we think, or dream?

I want to believe we dream one last time,

As we disintegrate into the mist of baryons.

We insist, demand, to glide into the abyss in a dream state…


Perhaps some few of my molecules will be ingested

By a creature in a 100 million years.

Hope so. 

0
  0 Hits
0 Comments
Tags:
free
Tweet

Cement Mixer Me

I do not sleep, night after night.
I stomp snock-wall cranium,
leave bloody bootprints, bone bruises,

swallow chemicals, hold my throat—
to close eyes is sand on talc,
is memory ink, grotesque plasm;
a spill within my wadded heart.

I spell words I would not hear,
on lines collapsing in the heat—
my stupid moves, my lies, my grief.

Cartoon nemesis, gravel'd me,
sinks into the alum ocean, 
wave on wave of best forgotten.

A momentary self-crustacean
snarled up in holiday lights.
All bees within, crushed in tins.

Or stoppered pour of chatterstone.
Cement mixer me.​
0
  5120 Hits
0 Comments
Tags:
free
Tweet