"& when you feel it drag
through the membrane of your ears,
& rest inside the brain,
it will be a world too late —"
"and under the small rocks
that come here empty handed
–such a rain loses count"
"Blood of an artist’s gun, he’s as slick
as his ancestors who slid
a quill’s rim into
cartographers’ candlelit oceans."
"The triumphs of Pobo’s ekphrastic texts lie less in any consonant relationship between the given poem and the artwork than in the dissonant collisions sparked by the art and extended through the poetry. In the collection’s best moments, it’s as though Pobo’s language leaps out beyond the artwork to another plane altogether—a plane that nevertheless feels as though it was prepared by the artwork itself."
“Have a blessed day,” my neighbor says,
handing off an End Times pamphlet.
Torn as any article of soured faith,
it makes a bookmark, a decent coaster.
A reading of "Waiting On The Insurrection" by R.T. Castleberry.
Image by: Robert Cudmore