wilting flowers always dance in the moonlight to the beat of each other's poetry

So it's been a little rough lately for Great Weather as we had to say goodbye to our great friend and editor Brant Lyon.  We'd like to thank everyone for their support during all this and your kindness.  Brant will be missed.  I've been reading his book lately "you are white inside" and there is so much more clarity in it for me since Brant's passing.  It's almost like he knew this would be his final statement to the world in print.  The more I read it the more it wrenches out my heart and sends it straight into my stomach and then the tears come.  Well from this point on we shall continue our commitment to you as artists to keep this press going and helping you all to shine.  Brant would have wanted that.  If you take the time to listen to the trees, you can hear him.  This was the poem that I wrote in his honor: wilting flowers always dance in the moonlight to the beat of each other’s poetry



So I remember this one night Bob Hart featured at Otto’s Shrunken Head


and he tore the roof off the place.


Anyone who was there had their poetic talents heightened


and learned how to write and perform poetry.


We were all in awe.


Bob Hart showed us the way and we walk it every day.


Then Bob told us he had written it just for that feature

and threw the poem away.  It was only for one use


like life


like this body.


Brant recovered it from the trash.


He had discussed turning it into a little Bob Hart chapbook.


Either way Brant understood the beauty of true art

and he always wanted to share in that by sharing just that.


I loved taking word baths in Brant’s myriad of phrases that opened parameters

around doors that never understood the word, closed.


Something about his way of thinking will always remain close to the heart


by filling the veins


with ideas


turning them into poems


that matter.


So it looks like no Brant word baths in my immediate future


but there is this body


that I consume


only to be used once


like life


like wilting flowers dancing in the moonlight


like a Bob Hart poem.



thomas fucaloro