is a writer and teacher living in Iowa with his wife, an archaeologist, and my cat, a black ball of fluff.Every morning at a past brunch dawn, Christopher Eck awakens from sinful dreams and slathers apricot jelly all over his body, bathing himself in poetic inspiration. This ritual is followed by diving into a bathtub full of bits and pieces of newspaper, novels, word particles from every imaginable media, creating a dynamic adhesive word-suit. The effect, aside from the interesting body odor and some uncomfortable paper cuts, is an unmatched dedication to and perspective toward the lexical arts. His one goal: To be the first poet ever featured on the cover of Playgirl magazine.
He enjoy's fencing and rubbing toothpaste into his feet. From time to time, brave and alluring magazines publish his poetry, like, "Bunkum," "Conspire," "Gravity," "A Little Poetry," "Ink,"and "Paradigm Shift".
Unsightly beauty
a chaos of cares,
her form enough to frighten
a physicist and his
laws.Astounding wind - a weapon -
the queen's.Betrayed like the sea,
ridden by insolence, her
fractal form a failure to science,
asymmetrical, magnetic, stellar.
On Tuesday she will call to me.
She sings for a son,
one without snares and,
I must me naked
or crazy because
ancient goddess manifest
allowing possession:
her to I to her to I.
Every movement, tributary,
Unsightly beauty
every form, dancing,
flawlessly instant,
driving, awake.
Eyes meet and part:
What will you show me next?It is perceived depth where
shallow glory -- drunken me.
Where have my words gone?
Immersed, hinted, swallowed
by The Big Quiet and its
truth, its cookies, baked
in the moist of flesh,
surrounded by self.And
The tall mouse strangles
the new world, noticed
appetites for cheese,
calls the cat,
calls the dog,
calls the man,
calls the word.
Accepts his letter of resignation in swarthy spirit;
gay patriot to the singular concessions of
denounced love; Waits
behind thistle fat shrines for a chance to
fail.
The motions are unclogged and
pachyderm gray beside her ruthless body.
Are they one or
many? Sweat wet turbulence in an
aura of pain. Contrived contradictions conclude:
he can't follow the
waggle dance of elders in cinematic
mutiny.I'll never survive today (he is saying
because god knows I'll never survive
anyday) with the walls all white and
shorn, I'll count six to make a cube and
forget which is ceiling, which is floor.
This box within another within another
until spheres become cabbage cages
staked around French endearments,
words alive, suffocating beside that
untoward ocean, stretched gills flutter
into dry escape: A small and scaly
Icarus breaking Newton's law.
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