illustration by author
Hoglight
o sprite of oinking gripe / no smog inside the pod
tight and behind an amber fog
a hog that lives trapped in a headlight
no flog drives amber rod / o right before he’s ripe
his silhouette jogs from side to side
the hog that lives trapped in a headlight
o fight it saddle stripe / o clog where they might prod
blight upon the morning a sullen amber nod
this hog that lives trapped in a headlight
Gong Sijo
i hear a gong off the basalt plains / it’s flirting with the mist
my soles—they’re forted driftwood / shaped by chain linking edge
the red-ringings glow on the highway / but i won’t address their tricks
the gong bellows cross vast basalt plains / ever trudging forward
confused—bounced off a still coolness / like the night air is a maze
i can’t decide its redding ways / and still it trudges forward
the bellow belongs by the basalt plains / it has droning eerie-
beastliness / i follow ‘cause its arrow hums me something clearly
divining closer— something red / a city in the distance
the gong shoots dawn up on the mist / the cold limp in its jaws
zap— then pylons fry up ozone / to make the mist begone
but listen closely— hear again / the song has ended— and withdrawn
Written/Erosion
mirror made ‘n pinned on page
just as all earth labors ‘n lays
crumble carve—not all away
pen pushed pallet ‘n perfect shape
ditto david— ditto dave
similar sculptor—same made face
Sanguine Braid
o-th-mime of ours th-one we made
shook down to th-grime hoped to fade for our sakes
climbed n-escaped th-wanting for name
spine n-th-line strayed from letter-shape
rhy-med away til-th-words found a braid
primal hoot n-phrase of praise recreate
hearing its aches signs of writ charade
o-scrape off in time n-watch th-word-raid brake
twine lashing sentence a poe-m parade
A Small Tin Drum
on a small tin drum
I ring my hands
ba-rap ba-rum
‘n try ‘n dance
I ring my hands
I sit by plants ‘n-
on a small tin drum
I ring my hands
Max Hamilton has coedited 12th Street’s poetry since 2020.