By Kraushaar Mark
Falling Brick Kills neighborhood guy is a bold and creative choice of narrative poems wealthy with considerate and particular language. Mark Kraushaar writes approximately what strikes him, no matter if that's the struggle in Iraq, the concept of synchronicity, the retelling of children’s tales, or an issue of recollection. usually encouraged via newspaper tales or witnessed scenes, those poems are a refreshingly sincere exploration of our interconnected and multifaceted world. Finalist, Poetry, Midwest booklet Awards
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Extra info for Falling Brick Kills Local Man (Felix Pollak Prize in Poetry)
Listen: I have reasons. 31 Blue cap, satin jacket, same bus Wednesdays. I love you. Burn this. 32 Dear Mr. Whitman Vivas for those who have failed. Walt Whitman My husband, and don’t put the blame there, for if you had ever heard about his life you would wonder how he has found out enough bad luck to call him a failure. As in the case of the Plymouth. A pleasant blue, decent rubber, few dents, new door, but he wouldn’t know where it came from first thanks to his friends. To make the point: he did not apply for bad luck nor did he atsk for it.
Didn’t the mailman come? Look Jane. Oh, turn and look. Past the market by the playground, here we are, so unhip, so well meaning and bizarre. 30 I Controlled Paul Molitor’s Hitting Streak I would never, first of all, discount Pauly’s efforts in this thing. Naturally. But when he homered, right off I touched the stove slightly once and then twice, lightly, by the pilot. Really, partly, it was heat and touch that did it, you know, kept the whole thing going. That and certain thoughts I can’t get into here except, now, what’s the spot where the breath turns and starts the other way?
I wing one into the street. I steam one over his head. I lean in and heave another, then another and another— too high, too wide, and too high again and then, finally, I bonk the wheezing green Dodge from which my mother emerges, first frowning a little, then waving once. I’m throwing heat, I say. In a week I’ll turn thirteen. In a year I’ll start ninth grade. In ten years I’ll have worked as a teacher and then a waiter and a welder. In twenty years I’ll meet my future ex-wife at a Citgo in southern Wisconsin.
Falling Brick Kills Local Man (Felix Pollak Prize in Poetry) by Kraushaar Mark