Bio-generation, that inevitable and purposeful act of aiming a spotlight on an artist’s life, is thus:Agrimmeer lives in Houston with his felines, his mate, and his son, where he works in foreign acquisitions. With other fine company, he moderates the poetry website Capriole, where he currently contemplates the pinning down of metaliterature as a precise concept, a public discussion which he invites others in on. He’s won poem of the month at Poets’ Point, choice poem at Arcanum Café, and was the featured poet in Saucy Vox, a literary online magazine.


         Boots tick, step off the subcontinent, but onto higher ground.
         Each partisan finger finds different fittings around the rifle, the
         They spend all coin on small dials: a watch, a compass, a roll of
         Then fingers move as one pinnate passing a white crescent of bread to
         Where others Welcome it.

         In any season of the valley, Ferula Vatke always grows
         Out of some mountain crack, yellow burst after burst.
         It prefers little water and better lives off of less air,
         Puffing pollen like smoke.

         Rifles are told "wait" —until the artillery starts in (being advised
         Watch the watch).
         Then the men must amble to the next fight (and the compass winds up
         Not needed for that).

         A breeze throws about the sweet smelling air from the Zaskar. The

         Rifles hold, in the dark, each pointing down from their ridge,
         Waiting. Moments later, hands, feet, eyes, everything is fleeing
         Then they rest; medical tape orbits a limb.

         Lights pass the Vatke by at night:
         Torches some years and shells in these:
         But such flaxen passes are useless to it—
         All facsimile of sun.
         Even the man that paints pedals cries.
         Get these bombs out of my paradise.