Welcome. Subprimal Poetry Art looks toward poetry, flash fiction, music, and art work that takes the reader / viewer / listener out of the ordinary and into a place altered from that which they normally experience. In an enjoyable, thought-provoking way. Many of our written pieces are set to a custom musical composition to complement the author's recording. We pay our contributors.
After life swallows your soul and slaps you senseless. After the workplace bullwhips, browbeats, and bulldozes your dignity. After your hands grasp ambition like an ax handle until calluses are birthed, sore and pleading for caress. After you almost assassinate your dreams and then willingly kill for them. After this world sells you out and shoves you towards oblivion.
After you've been left shivering, …
We made a raft and life preservers out of fifty raincoats. It was Frank’s idea. We got out of there while our toilet paper and soap crafted heads went on sleeping and the guards felt satisfied. We were tucked in, alright – tucked into icy water in our homemade raft, and by God and all the celestial beings waiting at Angel Island, it held us up and carried us across the deadly current to freedom. But before that, back while we hovered near the prison, pumping air into the raft with the concertina, we were so jumpy our breaths came quick and we thought…
The scene at the sound was of light
hurtling toward the beach, dusk
turning the shore and sea oats granular
and vanishing in the shadows, alive
but crouched in a mode of surveillance,
patient for a glimpse of us, weathering…
When my 25-year-old son died in a snowboarding accident on December 27, 2000, I was writing about raising my two kids, being a poet and teaching, and how each of these three vocations informed the others.
Now my beautiful son, who was to marry his fiancé Kristen in five months, was dead. Hundreds of miles from where it had happened, I obsessed about how there must have been something I could have done to stop this accident. Like so many who have suffered loss, I lived with a barrage of what-if-I-had-only-done-this-or-that’s, no matter whether I could have taken those actions that day or the day before or even years before his accident. Since I had failed as a parent, I didn’t deserve to write. Writing was a discovering, a becoming. I didn’t want to discover or become anything, only to have my son back…
We are tempted to make of the man
an angel, the dark one, endlessly falling,
his nimbus of flame like wings,
but this angel is wingless. He flies on pain.
We follow the path of his descent
and his suffering draws from us
an endless feminine response
to the agonies of men. We want…