Another Year in the Suicide Belt or Life During Wartime

Walk dog. Ruminate some more

About possible future

Tattoos. Organize hornets’

Nest collection. Walk dog.

Think about the bored commodities

Gossiping about us in the lunar

Strip malls of the night. Walk dog.

Photograph neighbor’s trash.

 The William Blake Show

What happens stays
in Vegas embarrassed
at becoming its' own

Hypnotized by
flashy language that
makes you think it's
all about you.

Mostly it sleeps and is
a Taoist apostle
to what happens.

Hodos chameleonis,
ant cancer or
liberate France?
That's what I thought.

How far am I now
into the sometimes
adventure of being?

Meanwhile, the cat's
gone depraved.

The night sky
explains itself.

Chiascuro train
wreck, slippery

widget in a Blakean
nightworld. It

Here's a Little Permission to Exist if You're Needing Any


At the end of a long day

sometimes all you can do

is go somewhere quiet

and become a transparent balloon.

You're human. Please don't worry.


I say go ahead and become a balloon.

It's better than being the concubine of a car

indentured to intangible game theories

and wave forms. It's not like you're

going to be a balloon forever.


First you'll be a clear balloon

in whose clearness space continues

getting better acquainted with itself

then you'll be the philosopher’s stone

an undreamed of new system of


benevolent malice, a beautiful living

intermittently visible edition of Nervals'

brave Aurelia bound in radiant metemphychosis

and glazed with the misty rain of heaven.

So relax. You're ok. Even if you're dead.


You'll be a shield, several times, for several minutes,

then for many long smokey days

a weapon you will hold knowing its uses

in your amazing bright loving hands.

You'll be a small blue enamel

box in my pocket wherein his microscopic

celestial boudoir the holy ghost of William Blake


sits for centuries understanding how innocence

is deathless, looking fearlessly into mirroring infinities

putting his lipstick on, thinking how much he likes you.


These are the invisible things my sidereal blood tells me these nectar rummaging clear blue bullets



it's the only thing that can see me


my glassiness

through this 

shimmering promised


unseen silver

Only its seeing in my own dying 
at the end of the sentence 
robbing the process of its first
disabilities its dead mornings

Art as

new curses

the turning

music returning

the lost agonic



blue feathers
dismal invent
ories blue first
hands delays
that flower

 stilted not 


teach everything

to me about being


and falling


that falls

from pierced skin

in tears 

abyss bliss

abyss bliss


wind ripple

of vicious subtlety

my glass 

hand grenade

I make you my red broken 


animal paradise I

make you my glass



I break it

within my celestial bare



crippled uncrownable
this imaginary glass
subterfuge it is
in its' own clearness


My transparency is the only friendly disease

 that sees me

its glint of


it's the only thing that sees me

my glassiness

Only its seeing in my own dying 
at the end of the sentence 
robbing the process of first
diseases dead mornings

its own
broken eyed

cold cupid
blue roses

Clarity after hunger

clarity after disintegration

clarity after language

first discovered clarity

left undiscovered

clarity after death

clarity after births'

first clarity







my new continuing


your dying




glass spun

in burning


your reality

is my worry


road song

reality my furious


song for traveling


blessed colorless

feral energy carry

this mysterious

skein of asphyxiation 

emergent pearl

of closing

 the closing eye


               Get your free copy of Cosmicism, a book of poems by Rich Cronshey, here.

© Mike Kravolich

Copyright © 2016, Otis Nebula Press. All rights reserved.


Born and raised in LA and the desert West, Rich Cronshey’s 4 books of poems have been published by extremely small presses starting with Adagio of the Body in 1990. The Snow and the Snow, was published by Otis Nebula, in 2011. Trained in Tibetan Buddhist meditation, he worked as a hospice chaplain. Retired now, he is returning to writing and traveling.