Ed O’Casey was born on the border of the Shire, well within sight of the Eye of Sauron. He was raised by Dungeons & Dragons and Robotech, but he still manages to comprehend reality. He lives in New Mexico with his wife and daughter, and when he has time, he plays either video games or music. His poems have appeared in Danse Macabre, Wilderness House Literary Review, Northern Liberties Review, and South 85.
Wood is made of fire.
Fire is made of ash.
People are made of many things:
love, betrayal, broken wishes—
but mostly maggots.
The mind is built from theories
of thermodynamics and relationships between
disparate objects: butterflies and hurricanes,
houses made of clay
and digital photo manipulation,
God and the invention
of the consciousness of tension.
And of course, women are made of children;
pens made of poetry; men,
of atmospheric disturbances—
Repetition Is the Death of Art (ii)
You can’t hear it but the lilac
the orchid even the whore daisy
open and say please
come take my sex
Have you ever imagined what it would be like to be considered nothing more than the mechanism of conception you might be highly rewarded do you think the flowers would say that anything could serve a higher purpose would your produce taste any different
We do not understand
the question: explain
how it’s possible to feel
the loss of one
You question obedience because you have always wondered what a clean bedroom is for would you reconsider if your hamper was the only living place new children could unfold into the world
When she calls, we do not question
bring nectar bring nectar
bring pollen bring nectar
there is no I in hive
The flowers know we know
even the ants seem to know
you could stop this obsession with cloning
yourselves if you all
simply had the same mother
She would be very loving
though you would see her