81 pages of poems about autism, climate change, death, punk, Yukio Mishima, and letting go.

Birdsongs

Mark The Place

Adore

C.M. Crockford is an autistic/ADHD writer and editor originally from New England. He currently lives in Philadelphia with his cat Wally.

C.M. Crockford is an autistic/ADHD writer and editor who's lived in Philadelphia since 2017. His work has been featured in 3views, Vastarien, Neologism Poetry Journal, and Better than Starbucks among others. Birdsongs, his debut poetry collection, will be out in March 2024 via Alien Alien Buddha Press.

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A National Anthem

"He also attracted controversy thanks to his strong personal views,
political activism, including his self-described 'incoherent' anarchist leanings, and near-conviction over the deaths of several police officers."


Excerpts From My Potential Wikipedia Page

At The Last Party in South Philly

When you hit the carnival,

slick with sweat

in Philadelphia summer,

You eat food

battered beyond

recognition,

The Wheel By The Ocean

We’d bought more books

read more

written more poems

(good ones at that)

fallen in love more

If Only

The Fool

My Grandfather's Cigar Box

“You have to understand,” my client said, “At heart, I am a simple man. I live for only one thing. Just one.” The red glow of the cigarette, Gunther Adams’ third in twenty minutes, appeared far brighter in the grey, windowless interview room.

The Flykiller

Poet Star

Dead, restless, echoing smoke:
the cat can’t go out.
But neither can I.

June 8th

I Survive

Like a bird

after a wildfire,

living among the ashes

of the life I once knew.

 

My lungs still fill with air,

and despite everything,

I am compelled

to sing.

I Survive

Good afternoon cmcrockford;
I am from Phoenix also.
Here the insects make no noise,
though something sings along with the night.

Nominated for Best of the Net and the Pushcart, 2022.

Spam Love Poem

The last lion lives in a false Savannah measuring about three kilometers. He was moved there after all of the jungle habitats had disappeared, and it was too hot outside for much to live. 

The Last Lion

Sensory

The Boston nights:
The ones that spit cold at you,
leaving you longing again
for love's safe places,
far from scattered snows.

C.M. Crockford

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