I’ve told this story before—
with a different point,
a different ending,
a different resolution.
Most of my stories don’t end.
They trail off into the dark
of another day’s words,
some other recollection.
(August 29, 2026)
Category: aging
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Aging
by
The day fell away,
a slow erosion of sand
on a dying beach.
(August 29, 2026)
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My ground’s unstable
as likely to shatter
like a crystal glass
across a stone floor
as it is to remain
fixed within its frame.
I hold out my handsto solidify the air,
and balance on the rubble
like a tight rope walker
negotiates the empty space
across the rushing falls.
I am no magician;my illusions fall.
The distractions fail.
I am my own mark
from which to measure
the final unsteady step.
(August 27, 2026)
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Hovering behind me
on the edge of vision,
they show themselves
through innuendo.
No blatant laughter,
but violent whispers
which hint of storms
later from the shadow.
I cannot exorcise them,because I cannot name them.
They refuse to confess
preferring instead to sift
through old possibilities
like snow through dead branches.
(August 20, 2026)
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fear is always present
like air or dust
caught in the throat
seconds before a cough
I’ve said this beforeit is worth repeating
if nothing matters
everything matters
so find what you loveand who you love
and hold that moment
tighter than ice
until it’s eternaluntil it’s present
(August 18, 2026)
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I think of something else,
and become lost in the time
it takes to exhale
like entering a different room
then forgetting why
you left.
(August 8, 2026)
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If I hold the truth in my hand,
dare I eat it like the eucharist
placed on the tongue of a simple sinner,
or savor it like a mouthful of bourbon
before it burns the words wholly?
(August 7, 2026)
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I’ve resigned myself
that there are no answers
that what we haveis only here now
waiting for yearsto be seen
like an old man’s breathon an icy november day
(August 5, 2026)
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Time to Go
by
I have a tendency, I’ve noticed, to rush
the ends of my poems, to hurry home,
as if I’m bored with myself as well.
I don’t question any more the days
I don’t write. I know I will write,
because I always, eventually, do.
I know someday it will all end.
My heart will stop; I’ll take a last breath;
I‘ll say one last word. But that’s okay.
Life does not have to be an adventure
full of subtle profundity, and radical awe.
It is more often the slow morning after
sunrise, or mid-afternoon’s summer heat
when nothing moves more than a sigh.
(July 28, 2026)
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The morning is humid and thick with heat.
Yesterday cloaked its version of today
in brighter shades than those of nostalgia:
the past’s certainty belies its troubles.
I live along an edge of some other,Uncomfortable in the skins given
to me for the roles I need to play now.
Like hope, regret is best left to itself.
It is as if I’m stuck in a crevice,the walls widening above and below
where the frenzied wind leaps from edge to edge
until vanishing to violent air.
No opportunities rise with the sun;I feel old, and know the end has begun.
(July 2, 2026)
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I did not know him
as the child I was
anymore than the manI have become—
He was a shadowsifted in story
his deep voice lacedwith decades of smoke
before dyinginto mom’s revisions
I still don’t knowwhat I was afraid of
(Father’s Day: June 21, 2026)
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As I lacked the keys
and unspoken passwords
manners and intrinsic tropes provided
to those born oblivious within their walls,
I have never understood
how life works—
There was always
too much
that would not find its pattern,
too much
that had been broken and scattered
like ancient mosaics,
once Roman floors,
no longer conformed
to forgotten wars.
I was rarely satisfied
with what I knew,
as if the next glance,
the next book,
the next conversation—
might reveal it all.
For decades now,
I’ve stood outside
with one ear pressed
against a door
listening
for the right key
to slip the lock ;
for the hidden tumblers
to fall;
for the right door
to admit us all.
(June 14, 2026)
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There’s a snapshot of my mom
when I was twenty-four
which would put her at sixty-six,
my current age. She looks tired,
worried. She holds her face as if
deeply troubled, or grieving.
I was about to go to Europe—
my first time outside of Texas.
When I was a child, she would readbook after book after book to us:
Little Golden Books: Pokey Little Puppy,
The Little Tug Boat and others.
They all had one common theme:
There’s no place like home, no place but home.
(June 8, 2026)
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