B.J. Best


our deepest condolences

our fine breath and the shores,
and i be sit as a sunsetting. i long the stars,

the stars of the cat, the counter.
she’s clouds of something,
candles and the lake of a lake
of lives, of stick-between and the sharp pull
of a bather, white shooting like flowers.
simple, with a bottle in my father nesting
from the grass of your dead, of what sleeps the stars.

the grass could love the constellations. then i want and sun,
a water like a hurt to build a stand
of gravesing, the latter been asking of rockets.

sudden for the singing,
the bruntest wind, trying with the made of the broken.
the sunstill winter pattered the cards.


fallen orchards of home

our sorry
early album or spring.

it’s the vest flail,
you will walk about, deliberating the balloons,
and you would death.

summer beneath everything, everything!
blood and a small called space is skating by,
straight and brown rosary night.
i stood cross: themselves are on your eyes,
every metal-bucket february
bucking, building up the queases on the wall.
the rocking moon of colors, and we will kid, beautified,
to mean we knew to pluck numbers.

come in, the first death, watch the children.
are the cats soft—
an old as if i means it is drunk. the way the cooking
about a boat. she was fallen orchards
of home back of this winter, where we must
as a date wrenched the water.
she built so many rooms
likes god’s. the sunburbs are good
which fell hung away from the voice,
with a gone every nail can say.


from a midnight boat

dead from the wind, eaves from the clouds,
with no rock on the worming sand
who shore like a sky, like crates of stars.

it is feathers of snows
with the belly as a constellation.

in the wind still be the saint of flour,
so the water, the stars, the lake
of the teared glass with a prayer—

they watched the fine prayer that is a dancer.

in the sap, the sunside to your blue me
springs the bright shards of song.
the stars crack and form like steel.



to ache

the wind in the bent broken
might be from crying
of love to something:
a fire, the lake, and our shoot
like a slandering of fish on the stones.

the filled, pressed and milling,
how you ask we track
hands in the pray of their children
who do no prayer,
ready to roost spikes of rain.

the house sighs the lake.

the feeling has cracked
off the hours, but breathes of sun.
this could be planting like a black home
with a painted father of the wind,
but a little grave with its child
was a shore in the trapping.

coins and tracks of millions,
it’s unsaid to see we has things fired.
a story composed, boozy and wax,
twirling a snowman and many boots
with stars and speed round as mirrors.

yes, in some her diction, she is clinical:
to ache is dumb, the palms bursting birds,
whatever talk that correctly longs.


this poor, still care

he can say so house, she getness of death.
streaking that squeaking the wind,
early me what is the bone down

of the dark reading lake. you church the night,
sing alove to the lake, poets in the moon,
spinning this poor, still care.

the snowstorm is a drunk and appropriate thing,
waitress of wisconsin. i was soon her first sleep,
the kick that doesn’t need it, like a son, like a pill jars.

i was a stoped house of things, carols of bed in the print
of ruinous dull songs. as burn to live her high
that the done rains of forest pink.

i diverge. i have new day gills
while drifting a kitchen of the way.
i have the charging on the scars,

we with the brave broken hope said.
the photographs that is burning chemo flowers
walk at the black with my blood.



B.J. Best is the author of three books and four chapbooks of poetry, most recently Yes (Parallel Press, 2014). He lives in Wisconsin. Torch-rnn is created by Justin Johnson, based on work by Andrej Karpathy. It lives on GitHub.