Heath Brougher is the Editor-in-Chief of Concrete Mist Press and co-poetry editor of Into the Void, winner of the 2017 and 2018 Saboteur Awards for Best Magazine. He was the recipient of Taj Mahal Review’s 2018 Poet of the Year Award and is a multiple Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominee. He received the The 2020 Wakefield Prize for Poetry. He has published 11 books and, after spending three years editing the work of others, is ready to get back into the creative driver seat. His next book “Where Hammers Dwell” is due for publication in 2024. 

The Mighty-Side

 A glowing Merkaba-shaped landscape scoops up
glittering oracles of guidance 
and paints them the color of Humanity.

An artful emergence of the fruit of Love...
energy proceeds to personify and puppet Consciousness— 

never learning to nurture Nature—
never learning to embrace the pulsating indigo Sentience
of the cultivation of sacred visions calibrating 
trillions of dreams deep 
and lucid and large
and legendary and luminous.

The Language is Spiralverse! 
The Vale is Spiralverse!
The Sentient Energy is Spiralverse! 

And nothingness is merely an illusion. 

A Pale Summer

The grey-eyed hex dipped its middle toe in the spilled aftermath of the bloodbath,, it was the witching hour,, the grocer put snakes and sickly silvershells into Marlena # 414’s paperbag ,, either way she’ll melt in the death-swelter of the overbearing tinfoil sunlight shredding her wrinkled Nixon bikini ,,
       melting as
              if she 
   had strolled right out of 
     the garden of sound’s 
         earwaxing black hole cloud vision ,,

like waves and witching drown me screaming!
like waves and witching drown me searing! 

Delightful Delilah (An Ode to Jazz)

Roches thrive in the joy spring
drumming nearby a supreme love
blossoming and breathing bigly
bloomings of a waxen ride on the Parisian thoroughfare
as we count the syllables of a poem in notes,
in a psalm. Behind us is a kind of blue train
made of giant steps and meditations
that has opened an elusive door in the floor,
wracking my brain with a plethora of endless
sonic brilliance soaring into a newfangled ecstatic.

In my head—it hinges on being good to hear a zillion years.