Current Issue
Vienna Poetry School

by William Keckler



A dead dog floats in the foam scummy water below a waterfall

Keeps trying to wash up on the shore but the shore is human steps

A dead dog can't wash up steps

The water level drops and a stair is exposed

The dog rests on the white step for a number of minutes or hours

Maybe miles it all depends how you travel

The water level rises and the dog floats out again

Dog leaves the human step and floats out to the waterfall

It's a white dog, which seems strange (what reason? none)

Someone watches the dead dog float from a hotel window

She goes to  the window to see the dog, its cycles of time

The person in the window specializes in flotation (her mannering)

The white dog it starts to bloat with time (even from this distance)

She looks up higher and sees the moon between open sliding glass

The moon is long dead and also salutes us (quotation) light's funny dead dog

I mean the way that the dead dog, the moon or Sanskrit bothers still

I don't know why I love you even that monsoon you inhabit sands down

He grabs his lover by the back of her shirt as she stands looking

Pulls her towards an ancient bed she thinks (vanished stars aglow) should have rails

She doesn't know why but he feels ambient  (to her) maybe a disturbed airport 

She falls upon (upon, a human word) his naked back and finds its swale

You have destabilized me she says (and peripheral) to moon through curtains

The dog is floating towards shore again like so many curtains the people confuse

He lies on his stomach and plays dead while she lies in the swale of his back

I don't mean to be a prick she says and they both (laugh inside) only

But I don't want you to stop seeing him (and somewhat a dig) we are abroad

Abroad she thinks why not only a white moon the white dog and gravity's lease

She wonders what a lull of gravity (light, posthumous) would the moon ever stop

A hotel gathers strange sorts of time the towels migrate funny seagulls on the roof

The moon is a migrant worker she says and he says (please, the pull)


This is neither a rose nor a minotaur (I can't excuse) whatever pleads

Please is a word we have invented for a reason that does not yet exist

Remove your clothes and then your skin and then step in our clepsydra

Here is an apology as long as your galaxy (a milky stream)  (our garage)

Of course I love the way an ant (unfathoms) (walking over it)  corpse of quartz

Essence stuff retreats his poem's trilobite    

The Virgilian atque morphs into lyre of ampersand (ocean Pound sand sound)

I love the way you use the mold how you pour a concrete hand

Let's sit around all day making hands like that and then throwing them


The woods are deep and something (quite possibly) must be telling the tale

Reassurance is unfashionable  (unfathomable) I don't know why you try

Sentences that falter like beautiful people faltering will always be the culmination

I passed a snowman yesterday (funny) he confided in me he loves ice-wool

I said who doesn't (sad) and then he asked me for a jar of cold concealer

I smiled and pretended to read my phone and he said "Enjoy your effigy"

Being a polyvore is probably telling too much about yourself 

How you sway to cities with the most polyhedral architecture  (overjoyed)

Crumple a Kleenex and it's Frank Gehry omigosh the Whatever School

The way a bluejay is held captive by each disciplined afterimage

Do you consider blue feathers a form of self-knowledge (flighty risk critique)

Sky whittles down trees until they concede to hachures and pixels

How do we truly know when a thing is over dipped into the sculpture

I mean lowing in the way the hoarders of beauty do carefully out back

The snowman was too cheerful (his nativity) I should have been colder