“I am thinking of poets who haven't written well in years but who rubbed against the sun twenty years ago-- Aren't they in their own kinds of prisons too?” — B.J. Ward Copy Share Image
“In that house I built a bonfire that illuminated the fecund earth around it. And in that split-level my friend Tommy, only eight teeth… — B.J. Ward Copy Share Image
“You better ignore this. You better staple your eyes shut and put pot-lids over your ears and pinch your nose with vice grips and… — B.J. Ward Copy Share Image
“The words I speak to these chairs must be silencing. It has stunned them into a profound emptiness. No creaking from the gallery-- no… — B.J. Ward Copy Share Image
“I have nothing but duct-taped syntax to offer them-- noise of jury-rigged verse, of entire days burned by the focus of a foreman's glare,… — B.J. Ward Copy Share Image
“A poem is a windy city, has broad shoulders and insistent industry, barrels into your brain, sticking its steam-filled, swarmy head into the delicate,… — B.J. Ward Copy Share Image
“Little bucktoothed alligator ready to taste my bills. Make something suffer. Make something stick.” — B.J. Ward Copy Share Image
“leads to Bear Down-- Bear Down gives way to little crown-- Crown concedes the Head-- then Head produces All-- Snip the fruity cord-- little… — B.J. Ward Copy Share Image
“Out in this profane city, sometimes sidewalks seem the only cement that connects us, pressed by the sacred strangers we will never touch.” — B.J. Ward Copy Share Image
“A man awakes every morning and instead of reading the newspaper reads Act V of Othello. He sips his coffee and is content that… — B.J. Ward Copy Share Image
“I am thinking of poets who haven't written well in years but who rubbed against the sun twenty years ago-- Aren't they in their… — B.J. Ward Copy Share Image
“From ragbag, stumblebum, peripatetic lout To bonfire of catnip that burns itself out-- Bristled sack of hiss & claws Cinched at the maw--” — B.J. Ward Copy Share Image
