How the Buddha came to be foremost among human beings, discovering the enlightened path of liberated tracelessness
existence
A Definition of Bliss (for Joseph Campbell)
In this land of a quick and unexpected death, where the air is almost wet enough to drink,I am merely seeking an experience of being alive, my best and only religion,the music of tiny, bare footsteps splashing. George Cassidy Payne is a poet from Rochester, NY. His work has been included in such publications as the Hazmat […]
Out of Reach
In the stewed rhubarb flesh of the bay’s earliest fog, the water birds are undetermined. Birth and death. Nothing is attached for long. George Cassidy Payne is a poet from Rochester, NY. His work has been included in such publications as the Hazmat Review, Moria Poetry Journal, Chronogram Journal, Ampersand Literary Review, The Angle at St. John Fisher College, and 3:16 Journal. George’s blogs, essays and […]
I Exist
I am garbagewhite trasha categoryother than my skin I am wastedall of the timewith the passing of the centuriesa fruitfly intriguedby love George Cassidy Payne is a poet from Rochester, NY. His work has been included in such publications as the Hazmat Review, Moria Poetry Journal, Chronogram Journal, Ampersand Literary Review, The Angle at St. John Fisher College, and 3:16 Journal. George’s blogs, essays […]
Whispering
Under a dying Sycamorea soft handsimply rises on my chestbringing something closeto comfortso lonely and satisfied. George Cassidy Payne is a poet from Rochester, NY. His work has been included in such publications as the Hazmat Review, Moria Poetry Journal, Chronogram Journal, Ampersand Literary Review, The Angle at St. John Fisher College, and 3:16 Journal. George’s blogs, essays and letters have appeared […]
The Art of Being
We do not paint. We are the pigments,resins, solvents and additivesthe soft animal bristle andhand-assembled metal bands. We do not write. We are the molecules linked together in crystalline structures,soaked into paper, allowingour thoughts to bleed at the edges. We do not make music. We are strings vibrating,communicating rhythmic visions hanging in air, that feeling of wanting to bethrusted towards […]
Soul Cliche
The growling thunder of my soul. That’s a cliche, isn’t it? But even clichescan tell the truth. In wild isolation, my soul feels crowded by thespecial conditions of living. As if it’s under a crateof cinderblocks, eighty thousand metric tons. I know. Never to use the word ‘soul’-not if you want to be a good poet. But that’s like […]