The day makes way for the becoming moon, pushing through the burdensome late day blue, ever rising above. The cold wind looses whirlwinds, dead leaves dervish up the walk as the dogs rush from one emergency to the next. It’s the last cigar and the fleeting smoke and the small pleasures that aren’t any pleasure at all. The laws of you get what you give...
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It’s a hard road down to the bitter end. Either sudden bumps or unpatched holes to bust an axle or blow a tire, the dings and dents accumulate until all that’s left is the wreck. Eventually even the rest stops offer little respite, a pause to let the engine cool, a moment to get the sun out of your eyes. The circles paced looking for...
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The smoke rises, though there’s nowhere to go. The smoke rises, despite the nothing that matters. The longed for rain a series of drizzles, the known quantities proving the prophecy true. No calls, no texts, just the motion from next to next. Fireworks and frightened dogs, rats scrambling through the trees. The old bones complain and complain, as above so below. Heat rises, but the...
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The sky falls apart at day’s end,
between the scattered branches and
inconspicuous clouds entangling
the bitter winter blue, the cold
bite of bitter winds and
the portents of the gathering
storm lift these black wings
above the lit windows and
emptying streets. The crow on high
taking one last turn,
calling its kin towards tonight’s
roost, whatever home they make
at the last edge...
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Driving home towards the looming mid afternoon moon I give witness and spread invective, the lockdown traffic surprisingly lively in this ghost town suburb, the blue sky brightness belying the bite of the ice toothed wind. There’s little evidence of the holidays spread through the old apartments and the humble houses, a string of lights, a manger scene. Just the squalor of a small Bay...
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‘Tis the season of all the extras. ‘Tis the season of amplification. I feel too much, I go too far, I sink too deep too fast. Little things spark conflagrations, passing thoughts, fleeting glimpses. Most of the year I go crazy once a day or so. Come the holidays, it’s nearly every hour on the hour. I can’t let go though it’s all there is...
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The world doesn’t love you, but the world doesn’t know. It doesn’t pick the pieces it plays, it shuffles through the list. The broom on the sidewalk, the bird on the wire. The skin you were given giving in, tensile strength and the rough and ready. The rifle’s loud report in the cold dead night. The world only knows the dos and don’ts, not the...
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All the houses in a row,
the cluttered gutters the color of
wasted tears and worthless winter,
weighed down with gray clouds and
blue sky broken by the paths of
branches, frozen for a moment,
a portrait of intimate longing
bare limbs raised seeking
the blessings of the divine sun,
my bare knobby knees and
slack surrendered flesh exposed
despite the season I sit and...
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Winters grow worse in
days of plague and war,
the next disaster and
the cupboards gone bare. Lights
strewn about the neighborhood
burdened by the branding—
nativity tableaux surrounded by
Santa and Frosty and Mickey Mouse—
all the claimants to that gloried throne
crowding out the senior myths
as people bemoan their quarantine
isolations in silver and gold.
A year of new names for each...
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It is there without so much as
an inkling of thinking,
before all the dreams are gone,
before the work of waking has begun,
your name like breathing in
some wondrous lilting bloom
thick with heady pheromones or
that hook of a song repeated like
a mantra, the phrase clinging
to the muddle of being, a righteous
ringing out. Your name, then
the litany of...
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Broad daylight and nothing to see here. Middle of the morning, dying slow and painful. It feels like old news because it’s variations on a theme. It feels like forever, but it’s only been decades. The day all a haze as the earth exhales, house sparrows in the yard and Canadian geese taking to the sky. The words are running out, the returns diminishing a...
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The body doesn’t do much to
warrant the distinction,
the system closed all breath and bone,
the muddled heart beating away—
the closed fist, the empty vessel.
We think we know the where and
what, spark and spook and
a whiskered chin slick with
steam and spittle, the cracked
fortune cookie, the fairy captured
inside a punched hole lidded jar.
We cleave to meat and...
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