Nine books lie
on my bedside
table, unread:
six poetry,
two non-fiction,
and Don Quixote.
I should finish
Cervantes—
or at least
start— once
again, now
that I’m older,
and his windmills
have turned to giants.
(March 24, 2026)
Category: agency
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Sancho Panza
by
-
“and there is only the dance”
—T.S.Eliot
each step in this dance
trembles the body
like little orgasmic ripples
across an expansive lake
a small tenuous call
for a redemptive love
in a fragile universe
fleeing from itself
I believe in the tedium
of individual self-expression
as if it truly matters
truth is a smooth pebble
in an ocean alive with
mundane mendacities
(March 21, 2026)
-
When what I see is not
making sense even in jest,
there is where the hinge bends
one plane into the veneer
of another, and I fall away
afloat in a delicate chaos
of dust through afternoon light.
I live along a distant periphery,
where change happens
like one season to another;
a slow edge of soft magma,
where tectonic plates patiently
grind their jagged stones
into a field of dominant debris.
(March 15, 2026)
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“the war never ended somehow begins again”
—-Natalie Diaz
they no longer confine their hatred
to the darker shadows of night
but walk about mid-morning
unconcerned when recognized
thick blood drips from their teeth
while they stand in line at the bank
or watch the game at the bar
casually drinking a craft beer
we all know them for what they areyet say little above a whisper
we tell ourselves they won’t stay long
yet they do linger like smoke
long after the fire has burned
our lives into softest ash
(February 16, 2026)
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What do I dowith the I here,
with the voice here,with an other
who is just me;yet, not as well?
For so long now,I have written
into my lifeout of my life;
I know myselfas different,
something otherthan what I write.
Someone must breathebehind these words,
must speak slowlyto understand.
What is beingsotto voce?
Am I speaking?
Or listening?
What tight constraintsmust be applied
in order to saythat I am here?
(January 7, 2026)
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memory agitates into vision media res: the precise moment of peak self-revulsion, the inaction, the cowardice, the lie inherent in regret— when nothing more could have been done, nor anything now retroactively applied which can act as balm to the shame carried for decades through the day in those quiet moments on the way to work, waiting for the light to turn green, or some phrase, or song on the radio which tumbles memory’s cascade through the spongey canyons to again reconfigure itself into this contiguous present as some other story without static cause
(December 25, 2025)
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There is a difference he implied
between what you do— (write
your poems), and this book—
which had been published
and which he now held out
(like a capitalist Eucharist)
before him as empirical evidence
of his claim’s veracity; the attention
toward profundity, cannot simply be.
Cannot simply happen. As if
there were no luminescence
inherent in the creative act,
no value to the happenstance.
Yet it does happen,
as we happen. The ineffable silence
fills in what cannot be said—
no matter the credentials, or what
god waits to make the first move.
The writing, the process, the evolution
of the text opens the word into light,
and power, and even glory
as has been done forever and ever.
(December 23, 2025)
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I’ve tossed yarrow stalks on a table,
and stared blankly at arcane cards
pretending at small divinations.
Last week I’ve been reading poetrythat survived orally for millennia
before copied slowly onto a page.
I’ve done all these things before,so much so I almost recognize
the footprint’s patterns in the sand.
Each morning repeats itself:I let the dogs out, start coffee, piss,
as if the sun wouldn’t rise otherwise.
Yet, it does, as it will again:so starkly beautiful, so new.
(December 15, 2025)
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a turn away
from pursuit
from a life
from himself
an escapefrom others
from definition
from self-immolation
a denialof projection
of supposition
of expectation
a purgeof arrogance
of shame
of the soul’s anger
a beliefin the present
in hope
in simplicity
a meaningin the chaos
in the day
in himself
a directiontoward difference
toward laughter
toward each other
a movementtoward trust
toward friends
toward love
(December 9, 2025)
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“The heart lies to itself because it must”
—Jack Gilbert
What fragments have been lost
along the way? What holes filled
with other’s dry detritus?
other’s bland conjectures? These limits
become, over time, tattered as well—
perhaps more comfortable and loose,
easier to disguise time’s misgivings;
easier than telling the truth.
(November 21, 2025)
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The wind gusts in bursts
rushing leaves down the street
in a spasm of seasonal ritual,
as if a pattern’s repetition
creates a meaning separate
from our own simple noticing.
I have a hard time hearing
these voices of the world
through the constant clatter,
through the daily dazzle
and flash of the spectacle
playing in the wind’s
petulant laughter.
My screams are too loud.
To maintain my illusion
of safety, of purpose,
I whisper stories to myself.
I know stories are stories
and how they move through
each other like incestuous ghosts,
or confluent rivers, shaping
one another as they change.
I know change is incremental,
so I listen closely to my heart.
I notice a difference, but
am unsure what is different—
my notice, or the angle
of the wind through the trees.
(November 13, 2025)
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The fool’s dog’s sharp yip
is not dire enough
to ward off the fall
into the canyon’s echo.
Is it worth the death,
this life? The timidity
to make an attempt
is inlaid as context.
The sun sets in context
of a new risen dawn.
The view of other’s views
block vision’s sole vista.
What’s left is improvised—-
each day a blurred whirl,
simulating a design,
as the dance continues
teetering along an edge,
one leg in the air.
(October 25, 2025)
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