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  April 2015
volume 12 number 1
-table of contents-
 
  home   (archived)
 
  contributing poets
  Adeolu Emmanuel Adesanya
  Lynn Albanese
  Steven Alvarez
  Jonathan Beale
  Stefanie Bennett
  Jack G. Bowman
  Jennifer Bradpiece
  Don Kingfisher Campbell
  Michael Aaron Casares
  Beverly M. Collins
  William Crawford
  Pijush Kanti Deb
  Elisabeth Adwin Edwards
  John Elison
  Emily Fernandez
  Jeanie Greensfelder
  John Grey
  David Herrle
  Sonika Jaggi
  Strider Marcus Jones
  Phillip Larrea
  Emma Lee
  Marieta Maglas
  Matt McGee
  Christopher Mulrooney
  Dave Nordling
  Toti O'Brien
  Greg Patrick
  James G Piatt
  Frank Praeger
  April Salzano
  David Scriven
  LB Sedlacek
  Danielle Smith
  Jan Steckel
  Carl Stillwell
  Tim Tipton
  Philomena van Rijswijk
  Wanda Vanhoy Smith
 
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Michael Aaron Casares
April 2015
   

 

bio


photo by richard lee miller

    Michael Aaron Casares lives in Austin, TX. He operates Virgogray Press, an indie lit press that focuses on poetry. He is the editor of the poetry lit blog, Carcinogenic Poetry. His collection of poems, This Reality of Man, is available.
Michael Casares

   

 

LoveDrug

The convalescence in kindred spirits,
rye beneath promised moons ages old.
Suns revolving in hidden universe;
cosmic truth to distant words
and faces long removed.

Frequencies vibrate succinctly,
but our frequencies do not vibrate the same.
A reason for your absence:
to see your face would blind my eyes,
strip me of sanity.

Rising through the rainbow spine,
cleansing heart and hearth and home,
hushed inquisitions before the angels' thrones,
I become denied my love for you.
It is taken away.

A soft delusion like a crown of thorns
between lights of a blue marijuana cigarette.
The blue light, a toke of this blue hour,
lights daydreams before me, reminds me
not to live in the past.

Childlike idealisms at the dawn of all seriousness,
the rite of awareness beyond adolescence.
Asleep in the room of our fathers' and mothers' hearts,
a memory tacked to the wall, black and white and nostalgic,
tender as the ghost who sleeps beside me
but does not wipe my tears.

copyright 2015 Michael Aaron Casares