salt and





Tinker toy.
Lincoln logs.
Electric train.
Chicken pox.

Winter day.

I spy a sparrow
shivering on the roof
outside my bedroom

And the railing of my crib
tastes like varnish.

And I see the face.



Lilith threads her needle
from a stack of pins and needles
in the attic of my house.

And the merry-go-round goes round,
and the Catherine wheel goes round,
and the Manticore goes round

and round and round

a mulberry bush, a prickly pear,
and a dizzy dreidle spinning on the ground
beneath my feet just East of Eden
and a thrown stone skipping to my loo,

my darling. .

                                         * * * * *


~ For the Catfish

Your mouth, inside,
is like the Holy Grail
filled with blood of Christ
when you kiss my thigh.

Your fingertips
are like the nails
that nailed him to the cross
when you touch my belly.

Your tongue
is like the sponge
of vinegar and water
when it soaks my mouth.

Oh, yes. I rise.

Like Lazarus
from the grave,

or Christ from the cross.


What I call my “hypnagogic poetry” is the result of sixty years of poetic writing and experimentation. It differs from most, but not all other poetry in that it has no intention whatsoever to convey meaning, beauty, inspiration, emotion, feelings, advice, convictions, narrative or any of the other emotive and cognitive things typically conveyed by other poetic forms.

Instead, the single intention of the poem is to create a felt, a palpable SHIFT IN CONSCIOUSNESS (not unlike a marijuana “contact high” or “acid trip”) in the reader.

This hypnagogic effect is no more or less desirable an outcome than that of other poetry — just different. 


These pigeons on the grass will pass,
this rose shall be a rose no more,

and what goes up will not come down
till curfew falls on Scarborough Town.

(and the fool and his dog are soon parted)

There are crickets in bamboo cages
falling from burning trees,

broken branches on their haunches
leaping out to catch them in a jar
like fireflies.

But wait.

I hold my breath.
I’ve crossed the line.
I’ve gone too far.

I’ll say no more.


           “Please, do not understand me too quickly.” ~Andre Guide

What I call my “hypnagogic poetry” is the result of sixty years of poetic experimentation. It differs from other poetry in that it has no intention whatsoever to convey meaning, beauty, inspiration, emotion, feelings, advice, convictions, narrative or any of the other emotive and cognitive elements typically conveyed by other poetic forms.

Instead, through a highly personal, poetic process I call “hypnagogic writing” (which, by the way, has little if anything to do with one’s “dreams” or keeping a “dream journal”) the intention of the poem is to create a felt‬, a palpable‬ SHIFT-IN-CONSCIOUSNESS (not unlike a marijuana “contact high” or “acid trip”) in the reader.

In other words, my poems call not for an emotional response or, in particular, not an intellectual interpretation, but for a non-verbal almost neurological experience on the part of the reader through, what the asemic poet and literary critic Jack Galmitz calls, my “sophisticated use of repetition and sound.”

Readers can find examples of my “hypnagogic poetry” published in the following editor-reviewed, literary journals and magazines:

Beloit Poetry Journal; Evergreen Review; Midstream; Choice: Red Savina Review; Poetry Pacific; Chaffey Review; Empty Sink: A Magazine for Intellectual Deviants; FUG.UES: An Anthology of Experimental Poetry & Art; Rogue Review: An Annual Anthology of Experimental Poetry; California Journal of Poetry; Kylana Review; Snapping Twig: Hot Tub Astronaut (Scotland); The Corvus; Screech Owl; Pif: A Journal of Art & Technology; and others.

SECOND SILENCE: A Hypnagogic Poem

The mouth of the cave
is silent.

Sticks and stones and broken bones,
all silent.

Dust, silent.

And we sit in the silence,
in the dust of the silence,
bandaging broken bones

and sticks and stones
and the mouth of the cave,



NOTE: This poem is an example of the poetic form I created over the past 60 years and have come to call, “hypnagogic poetry.” It casts aside all attempts at meaning, beauty, narrative, emotion, or inspiration in favor of achieving a very specific “hypnagogic effect” — an altered shift in consciousness (much like an acid trip or a marijuana “contact high”) rather than an emotional or cognitive response from reading the poem, .


“My poems try to achieve the maximum 
effect with a minimum of words. ~L.G. Corey

pins and needles,
needles and pins,

blessings and curses.

I piss on his grave,
the grave of the wolf,

break his teeth,
shave his head
spit in his mouth.

curses and blessings,
needles and pins,

teeth of the wolf,
head of the wolf,
mouth of the grave.

grave of the wolf,
grave of the children

grave of the hours.


dark dark dark

out of the dark
and into the dark

dark morning
dark noon
dark night

everything dark
everyone dark

in the earth dark
in the air dark
in the water, dark
in the fire dark

dark upon dark
they come into the dark

by the dark of the moon
they come into my crib
and my crib has become

the Merkabah,
the Chariot of Shiva,
the Bosom of Abraham.

NOTE: The “Bosom of Abraham” refers to the place of comfort in sheol (Greek: hades) where the Jews said the righteous dead awaited Judgment Day. The phrase is later found in Luke 16:22-23.


“A poem is nothing we create, but something we transmit from disembodied voices other than our own. It never belongs to us, but always to Them. They, not we, determine its greatness, or lack thereof. They, not we, determine if it is immortal or not. They, not we, select who is called to occupy the priestly office of Poet.” ~L.G. Corey (Thoughts on Poetry)

Come, voice of the pillow,
voice of the rock,
voice of the madness
tickling creation.

Come, holy spirit
of unholy thought,

deliver the child
trapped in its mother;
release the horror
trapped in its smile;

make of me
an ash of myself;

make of me
a shadow of God;

make of me
a poem of you.


     “We’re all mad here.” ― The Cheshire Cat, Alice in Wonderland

She picks up sticks
and stones
and old men’s bones
and cockle shells.
And tolls the bells
at the midnight hour,
the midnight mockery
of the midnight bells.
And whistles up a wind
and a tune of the wind
from the cave of the bells,
from the tongues of the bells
and the tongues of the serpent
roaming the earth
in search of its eyes
under the stones
under the bones,
under the hour,
the midnight hour
between the dark and the daylight,
between the pot and the flower,
the dark, dark flower
of the lost, lost hour.