Eric Fischman

Eric Raanan Fischman received his MFA from the Jack Kerouac School of Disembodied Poetics where he co-founded Semicolon, a student-run publication utilizing letterpress and DIY technologies to make available the means and techniques of self-publishing to the student body at large. He is a co-editor of The Hive, the journal of Innisfree Poetry Bookstore in Boulder, and currently moderates the poetry calendar on His work has appeared recently in Nerve Lantern, The Love Shovel Review, Kleft Jaw, Bombay Gin, The Boulder Weekly, and Lunamopolis. His first collection, Mordy Gets Enlightened, is forthcoming.

Ghazal: Orion Does Not Undo His Belt

I don’t know much about Romance, so I invite it to keep it’s clothes on.
An old dog next-door hollers at the moon who keeps her clothes on.

The night swells to a wave between the coffeepot and the couch.
The living room carpet ribbed with windowlight keeps all its clothes on.

Where is the moon’s yellow friend with his bowtie and bassoon?
A falling leaf whispers to the concrete to keep its clothes on.

Of all the galaxies in all the void, you had to metastabilize mine.
A blue marble at the end of a spiral arm keeps its feathered clothes on.

I ask Romance where the cashews are so I can crust this trout.
Hugging scales in the compost bin, the rainbows keep their clothes on.

What a luminous arrangement! The music of the clouds!
The throats of frogs addressing wings promise to keep their clothes on.

Romance brews up some lavender tea and puts on an episode of Lost.
Trembling in a dark bedroom, the mattress keeps its clothes on.


It Takes a Witness Capable of Decay

Hey get back to work the empty spaces won’t color themselves in don’t get greedy with what life you’ve got that isn’t yours get furiously repeating bake the bread out of you there is no time for the right words let’s get our fingers dirty crumbling castles between the fishes and the quarries no one has to know about our dinosaur bones if you answer swiftly there are no ferns to grow no field to wheat just slumber openly in the desert while there is still sand I’ll be in the shadow of a leaf beneath the octopus streamers my own light in the body captured we can reveal ourselves to the green and blue of blackbirds the highway careens like a precipice wood chips in the bickering of grass and steel your honeys are caught in the crossfire each photon anonymous rings of generosity we have been in every song since sound

Some Thoughts on Creativity