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Showing posts from March, 2017

Richard Merrill

Living without gps


Travel up the common femoral artery to the junction of walk and don't walk. Leave latitude for the heart, its sextant lost in the remains of route 66, or plot a solution; I've got my spine I've got my Orange crush.

Broken mirrors vivisect the man, all roads lead to Polaris, scattered bearings.   Find some other track side noodling in the dark, people losing time, lost being lost between the Crux and nebulas.

Steer into the long way home, find where found is hidden in the magnetic resonance, images of small intestine and appendix, the parallax of travel where no one can run to, or from.


Richard Merrill is an unrealized poet. As well as an unrealized farmer, architect, Lego artist, and ultracyclist. It took him a while to accept the term; trucker. Lately he has realized he is very much that. He hopes the reader finds some merit in his work.

Hillary Leftwich

I’m calling you out. You’re a dream but never a reality. You’re everywhere on the streets and in my sheets.
I work all day and catch the Colfax bus home at night. You’re everywhere on the bus; your smells, your faces, your rage.
There is a woman twitching in her seat from withdrawals. I’m too scared to sit next to her.
I see the face of the man who tried to kill me every day in my son’s face.
How can I love this boy with all my heart when he looks like the one person I hate the most?
I can’t wake up. I can’t move. The psychiatrist tells me it’s sleep paralysis but I think it’s you.
I can solve Algebra equations in my dreams but I can’t figure out how to live off $2300 bucks a month with three jobs and a son to raise.
Soon he will lose his Medicaid because of a man who cares more about the size of his hands than the size of his heart.
There’s no equation that solves how I can save my son from the seizures that are going to kill him.
My eyes aren’t brown they’re hazel but who gives a fu…