Keith Higginbotham

Hidden Hidden Camera

I unraveled the cowboy
night spoon, saw
a sky flatlining, sang the
dragged hymns.

I learned the lyrics
from windows
and sunglasses, bounced in
what one knows
not to ask, mountains along the
boring strange I left.

We stood moving
beside us, raging
the volume up a pointed
look, took apart
all shifting into the yeah.

Grind of boots into just
the same, crude trees under
earth, down the hall,

Brick Wings

I had shed myself like
sight, the title role over
a chair, took out my
fingers – given it out.

What you can’t see
is what you can. But this
isn’t what’s
glistening. The asphalt
was a fraction of your hand’s
respite, angrily described
as going.

Abstract Self-Esteem

Pregnant typescript –
it was a winter

The scattered nation reads
our school of harmony,

a common spun.

If a vessel
that is a vessel
voluntarily restrained
is not the case, we have
our native hero,

our genre of the popular.

Keith Higginbotham has had poetry recently in Counterexample Poetics, E•ratio, Liebamour Magazine, and trnsfr. He has published two chapbooks: Carrying the Air on a Stick (The Runaway Spoon Press) and Prosaic Suburban Commercial (available as a free download from E•ratio Editions). He lives in Columbia, SC.
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Blogger Raymond Farr said...

Wonderful! Inventive! Please submit to Blue & Yellow Dog (warholaray1@embarqmail.com)

12:07 AM  

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