May 2010

Brian Wallace


This marks an author's first online publication Brian Wallace was born in New York City during a heat wave. Currently in Chicago, he writes gallery reviews and art criticism for Lumpen magazine and is working on a book of very short stories.

The Camp Room    

This bed is not mine, I did not read these books or tear the hole in the ceiling.

But I did break a glass, this is really my blood and the sun strains my eyes.

The broken bottom rolls on the pitch of slanted tiles,

The whole room hangs.

As if gravity were about to detach it
send it crashing—crack it open—spill
its contents all over the lawn;

most of which, except for all the clothes,
are not mine.  

Shedding a random trail of crumbs

of stolen pint glasses

                                  of ashes.

There are people here; blueberries, birthday parties

and mournful accordions.

There are canyon trails that lead to secret lakes—a dead snake in the road,
a brilliant white dome, a golden spire and fumbled attempts at chivalry,

a sharp pain receding.

There are mountains here
              and there are monsters.



Brian Wallace: Poetry
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