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Soffre il mio cor con pace.

Four in the morning-as I write the words. After dragging my procrastinating clay feet through the muck of revisions, I have tossed myself into bed. Atop a mound of sundry novels and my own drafts, which caps my microwave like a stout and foolish hat, is a mug of gut-puckering instant coffee. The tablespoon sticks out at an acute angle from its ( Read more... )

writing poetry is such difficult work. I am not talking about the scores of myspace posts dating from some four or five years back up until the present moment. I am not talking about the grubs I toss up for display here. I am endeavoring to piece something together which might just surprise me. The project is about form as well as function; poetry ( Read more... )

You? Again?

O! Friends what are we doing to ourselves?

wheresoeverin we are interned,

. , ;

My gesture knows. A haunting fatigue
which chafes the underbelly of the unconscious,
a pit loaded with dancing ghouls, into(in two) a
lustrous mania of questions.

Diminished by the waterwear of rain ( Read more... )

Viols, fatigue and Hawthorne.
A midterm for Modernism, cranberry juice and Milton.
An empty soup can, malaise and dithers.

My name is Zachary Cooper and this is livejournal ( Read more... )

Is there any way of seeing you again?