Biography of A.j. Binash
A.j. Binash is a post-post-post-modernist poet from La Crosse, WI. He has released a book of poetry entitled Cautionary Tales of an American Boy Out Past Curfew (Rattlesnake Valley Publishing) . He has also been featured in the W.F.O.P. (Wisconsin Fellowship of Poets) Muse- Letter and Murmurations Magazine.
Also a performer-Binash has shared the stage with Acker award winning poet William Taylor Jr. and Grammy award winning musician Bill Miller. Currently working on a new manuscript, Binash will be releasing books for years to come. If time allows.
A.j. Binash's Works:
Cautionary Tales of an American Boy Out Past Curfew
A.j. Binash Poems
I sat in my car Outside the Goodwill Playing with distorted shadows
In All Honesty
The nurse led me from the waiting room Into a neutral white room She instructed me to sit I did as told
You Get What You Deserve
Last night we spoke About our dead child. A whiskey slur stuck to the corner of my mouth I tried to touch the moment with useful words
Can I Talk
I want a mute To give me advice On the bravery
Dying Sheriff. Dying Thief.
He coughs. Blood splatters in a neat row of red dots. Inches from the badge, on his breast pocket. Another unfinished sentence, punctuated by multiple periods. -Ere’s what I think. I think I should shoot ya. Right ere, right naw. I could shoot ya. In the head. But I think all the thieven ya done, is up there, up there in yir head. Just waitin ta get out. That be the last sight I git.
Some Children Are Better Off
Her mother would chase her own shadow. Sprinting footsteps created vibrations That shook the kitchen cabinets.
I am Shamed. I am Drunk.
Like a shadow birthed From dawn-light's approach. I hide between the pink and red Of pollution's grandeur.
The Golden Calf Is Beautiful.
She kneels by her bedside. Wrinkles the linens Draped across her mattress. By placing folded fingers
Making Love, or Making Babies?
For love to be a success, One must follow a sequence Of preordained obligations.
Once In a Lifetime
She un-folded the lawn chair, Placed it on the flat surface Of her driveway.
Evolution Of Having A Desire-To Have No ...
Do not describe to me the fiction of intent. Let me imagine it. In a poem, Or a song.
'Don't Need a Gun to Blow Your Mind! '
I blew out my brains with a handgun. Instead of blood Came splatters of bleach. Following the momentum of the bullet.
Your First Day of College
On the first day of class-The Professor slammed a ruler Onto his desk. A crowd of students gasped
Just a week ago You were twirling my chest hair Around the tips of your fingers And I smiled
Based on a True Story
The morning sun
Had just kissed the window
Through the blinds
A gleam of sunlight
Danced inside the whiskey glass
I held within my fingers
She walked into the kitchen