Graham Isaac — The Monarch Review
Two Poems – Graham Isaac
Thursday, May 10, 2018 14:22 — 0 Comments
We Know the Results The Super Bowl is Over and with it, speculation as pros and amateurs alike call in to collect their bets. The Super Bowl is Over and you’re all a little drunk and mentioning your friends in Philly and considering more cocaine or maybe fighting the bartender. The Super Bowl is Over I need to leave this shouting neighborhood. The Super Bowl is Over bartenders prepare for another downturn and hope to live off these profits at least until Saint Patrick’s day. The Super Bowl is Over and it is time to sort my w2s. The Super […]
Orange Cascades – Graham Isaac
Sunday, July 16, 2017 13:42 — 0 Comments
“In such an iconoclastic city, even the fine dining is Punk Rock.†Diner rankings for the uninitiated, Splash dashed across their clickable meanings. An incisive piece of Journalism on why we’ve yet to overtake Paris when it comes to omelettes. When I went on the “date†with the chef from Michigan who was happy that Seattle was Finally Coming Up, I for a moment pictured myself in 24 hour sport coats, cutting small portions into tiny ones, with a variety of serrated blades, laughing conversations about lesser airports of the world, all thick framed glasses and the server’s white button […]
Two Poems – Graham Isaac
Thursday, June 29, 2017 12:11 — 0 Comments
Redirecting Limited Mental Space to Romanticizing the Current Situation We are teaching each other to make fists sowhen the time for punching comes,we don’t hurt ourselves.A poster ripped from a telephone pole orcovered with contradicting stickers. Reading up on railroads, both underground and for hopping. A lifetime of sweaty basements and darkened bars did surprisingly little to prepare us for guerilla warfare at the coffeeshop. Those phone calls to our representatives aren’t as glamorous, but we crush finger exercises and pop knuckles and shout solidarity with Princess Leia. A surprising number of people show up to the thing. Maybe it […]
What am I?
Bioluminescent eye
That sees by the shine
Of its own light. Lies
Blind me. I am the seventh human sense
And my stepchild,
Consequence;
Scientists can't find me.
Januswise I make us men;
Glamour
Was my image then—
Remind me:
The awful fall up off all fours
From the forest
To the hours…
Tick, Tock: Divine me.
-- Richard Kenney
