she said at least
the equivalent
of maybe
so much other
than he desired
but enough
to hint
at least
momentarily
toward a soft invitation
he wanted
but never had
(February 21, 2026)
Category: delusion
-
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)
-
Still Point
by
Ritual consoles
through repetitions solace:
“I’ve been here before.”
(August 16, 2025)
-
Nothing is complicated.
Everything is simple,
if not simplistic.
Caught in worry, we
trouble our troubles
which are nothing really.
I read a poem todayon the internet: the poet,
obviously under the influence
of Bukowski, judges the bartender
for her intertwined tattoos
and for her storied fucking.
He ignores that what we writeoften says more of the writer
than the subject of the poem.
We are the pen and the paper.
While in the slow dusk of life,
we see only with myopic eyes.
I’ve winnowed enough truthfrom any number of lies to know
there is little difference, and
I’m not sure I trust anyone
anymore, especially myself
when it finally comes to that.
(June 30, 2025)
-
“We had a hedge back home in the suburbs
Over which I never could see:
—The Clash
Sporting my “Howl” facsimile t-shirt
after working out at the gym, I stop
by the local grocery store for a few things.
David Bowie plays on the store’s music track,
followed by the Clash’s “Lost in the Supermarket.”
How ironic and fun! as I move down the aisle.
I quickly grab the gluten-free bread we like,
a pre-prepared sushi meal for lunch,
and a bag of ice since our fridge crapped out.
Down the road ICE maintains a detention center.
While on the other side of the world, jets bomb
Palestinians in Gaza, and the people in Tehran.
(June 18, 2025)
-
She thought, but that it need not be mentioned.
She doubted he could understand at all.
The party pulsed around them obliquely.
She thought about her old dreams once again.
He claimed she was being irrational.
She doubted dry reason’s caste privilege.
She laughed and twirled toward the dance floor.
He kept talking as if she were still there.
Dancing in tight angles and broad circles,she thought at her best with her blue eyes closed.
He felt comfortable in closed boxes
easily stacked in a dark corner room.
She knew that reason was an emotion.
He desired life to fall tightly in place.
(May 27, 2025)
-
the police break down doors
the wrong doors the wrong people
but in other states other cities
I try to be optimistic
the world has been worsethe terror the killing fields treblinka
just not so close not so near to me
I try to be optimistic
the streets are not slick with bloodskulls are not stacked on skulls
fresh ash does not fill our lungs
I try to be optimistic
the sun rises over stone hengeas it has for millennia
-
He places his foot on the treadle.
The wheel slowly begins to creak,
then spin and spin like fate
in death’s dark hands.
He presses his tired eyes
to the stone; sparks fly.
It’s hard to see with myopic eyes.
Everything blurs with angelic auras.
If only he can sharpen a new lens
to reshape his stark visions,
then what he sees will not come to be—
If your eye offends thee,pluck it out,
pluck it out!
(April 22, 2025)
-
another year
by
the dogs bark out back
again the wind ignores them
each to their nature
a warm new year’s eveends the hottest year ever
our world is burning
we live deludedwithout trust in what we see
shadows form our wall
of course old leaves fallas easy as the sun sets—
another new year
the wind is only the windthe sun will rise without us
(December 31, 2024)
-
always somewhere else
in a foreign language
an ocean away
another part of town
the neighbor’s house
never near youin the same room
your blood on the floor
your muffled cries heard
down the well-lit streets
always safe behind screenswith coifed stern faces
stating facts about others
numbers abstract and soft
pushing their deaths away
never the mangled bodiessplattered brains on the wall
never at fault
never complicit
always another lie
(November 17, 2024)
-
Minnows nibble on my toes
as I sit in Clark’s Creek
where it deepens to my waist,
and runs slow a few miles
below the bridge into town.
It is spring, and the trees hangtheir new leaves over the creek
like a secret green cave
where all answers are contained.
I am nine years old, and happy.
I know nothing beyond myself.Catfish hide in the tree’s roots
that uncoil into the creek,
as copperheads and moccasins
slide past unnoticed nearby.
(April 12, 2024)
-
the desire for words
inspires delusion
the ambitionlaced in envy
clots the throatwith small words
small ideasuntil all that’s left
to say wheezespast dry lips
in a finalthin sigh
no onecan hear
(March 15, 2024)
subtext 