Mitch Corber

A skein of mangy moments interrupts a tray
of fancy deli. Feldspar feels more like shale,
a shallow pan of foolers' gold. Never on Sunday.
Nunca domingo, se˝orita, no sign of relief.

Pardon me I've bred a tension
spanked with barking knives. Skin limits
a green council of invigorant sounds.
Simulcast elections rig the Figure 9.

Nil and not a factor
I'm prone to moan clueless in this clinch.
It's a cinch I gather at the bedpost
a curious grin of begging mouth.

Training for the main stage a million legs
shake of the shingles. I plead a deep & dancing icon
bubbling in its brew, or fooled, a mighty lightness
succumbing to the running commentary.

Please stomach the hardened violence,
the heaped bleatings, the severed nobility
concerning my salient body. Do limit your
furrowed-brow bullyings, mon amour.

Southward flees the frosted seasons
lost in slumber's chill.
Ill-timed, a tempestuous fist
resists the doubter's dilemma.


Mitch Corber
Awardee of the New York Foundation for the Arts and producer of NYC's Poetry Thin Air Cable Show, I founded the Thin Air Video Poetry DVD Archives ( which include Ginsberg, Corso, Ashbery, Di Prima, and Cage.áI've read throughout NYC andáI've appeared in Blackbox Manifold, Listenlight, Blazevox, Columbia Poetry Review, Nedge, Mirage and tight. 'Quinine', my book of poems, is published by Thin Air Media Press and is available at