Brian D. Morrison<\/strong><\/p>\n Frankenstein\u2019s creature tried sincerely to be The creature sliced an ancient septic tank. he was fear become reality. A storm swept in, clubs and knives, mace and gunfire — he couldn\u2019t break. And his wheat, his dream, plant. A freakish reek in grunts and ragged hitches, heart and head together. Time carries the farm Brian D. Morrison<\/strong> completed his MFA at the University of Alabama, where he was an assistant editor at Black Warrior Review. His poetry has appeared at West Branch<\/em>, The Bitter Oleander<\/em>, Verse Daily<\/em>, Copper Nickel<\/em>, Cave Wall<\/em>, and other journals. Currently, he works as an Assistant Professor of English at Ball State University.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" Brian D. Morrison Frankenstein\u2019s creature tried sincerely to be machine but could be only problem. He wind- milled his arms tilling dirt, rocks and clumps flying. Seed from his hands fell perforce. The creature sliced an ancient septic tank. A … Continue reading
\nmachine but could be only problem. He wind-
\nmilled his arms tilling dirt, rocks and clumps
\nflying. Seed from his hands fell perforce.<\/p>\n
\nA repugnant blob from the gush, he ran,
\na nightmare dripping into town. A warning
\nlike any relic sprung to breath and panic,<\/p>\n
\nlightning snagged his bolts, and his hulk
\narms flailed. He was a marionette from hell,
\nhowling, and the townspeople came at him;<\/p>\n
\none woman threw a pumpkin at his face.
\nHe took it, all of it, because he was trying to
\nremove lichen from rock, rage from knowledge<\/p>\n
\nmiles of life, gone because he was now a known,
\nno longer the silent enigma at the back
\nstretch of the county where no one dared<\/p>\n
\nhe ran back to his field, fast and so alone.
\nHe buried himself piece by piece between
\nthe rows: An arm here, a leg there, his<\/p>\n
\nover him. He sleeps in pieces, hopes for firm
\nending of shivers at oddity, the black in the world
\nthat compels a person to break what doesn\u2019t.<\/p>\n