Today the blog goes international with a drop-in by David Estringel from Texas to talk about a poem from his shortly-to-be-published new collection, Blind Turns in the Kitchen Sink (Anxiety Press).

Black Flies skim the surface of the screen door— deathly spirits in timeless dance— among rusty catches and long-forgotten captures of smears and smiles, looking for a tear to let the world rush in (in whispers and screams) like credos of newborns’ philosophies. No, they don’t bother me much those errant twings and twangs that pull my eyes away from the magnetic hum of hard plastic fruit, ripening on Frigidaire doors, and the bloody meat of strawberry slices, souring in a bowl of milk, under the frosted glow of my 60-watt suns Is it the creak of floorboards under wooden legs (or bones) that heralds their come to call, circling like a wreath, at my kitchen door? Or is…