Free of belief’s comforting vanities,
the small profundities of the day
reveal themselves through slow unravels
as their collective weight strips conceit
away, leaving bare bones exposed
to judgement and snide approbation.
(March 4, 2026)
Category: pessimism
-
“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)
-
Just another day:
the children go off to school;
students are gunned down.
-
The adage goes
To save for a rainy day,
But the rain doesn’t rain much
Anymore. When it does
I watch the grass, trees,
And flowers left dance,
A hollow ghostly dance.
I look around the circle;
To see ritual filled eyes
momentarily hope. We are
Lost. The moment’s all
That is left. Tomorrow’s
Too late. It rains
For hours. the air cools,
At least ‘til morning.
Nothing’s changed;
All is as it has been. Yet,
The streets dry quickly,
And the earth cracks
Open like an empty kiss
Bestowed upon a corpse
As a last blessing.
(August 22, 2025)
-
It is not safe. Bears ramble
through the valley, eating
fruit and honey. Berries
stain the forest floor
in blackish red swathes
like ink poured accidentally
across a policeman’s ledger.
They have crossed the road
which runs along the edge
of the park. The dam moves
with purpose, followed close
by her rapacious cubs,
their long tongues loll
wetly from their mouths
like loose rubber pendulums.
Make no mistake, this time
it is more than mere hunger
which curls her black lips
into a sharpened smile,
more than resurgent spring,
more than the fate of time
at history’s end,
but revenge.
(March 21, 2025
-
“untroubled by a leaf falling
in a garden”
—George Oppen
lost in worry
which troubles you
more than
the obvious deaththe obvious moment
in which you live
most of what you knowhas diminished
from nuance
eroded into a massirrelevant
grave
(January 23, 2025)
-
a cardinal flits along a parabola from tree to tree
as if making a hand gesture to emphasize a point
as if what you saw in the clouds
(dogs pursuing nebulous squirrels)
is worth the energy it takes to look up
from reading the day’s news to listen
to the beauty which orbits slowly around
us
and we all just see what we see
because we are that simple
we are that simple
(November 16, 2024)
-
On a sunny day in mid-November
in a newly gentrified part of Austin,
the restaurant is full of the young and educated
who chat at tables beneath the large oaks.
Waitresses bring armfuls of food and drink,
then easily sweep away the empty trays
in an all consuming dance of plenty.
Conversation at our table stays light
with talk of work and dogs and nothing,
nothing at all, of the coming darkness.
(November 10, 2024)
-
“words as residue”
—Gustaf Sobin
Sheared close
to the skin,
we sit waiting
for something
to be said.
What remains
after we speak
are bludgeons
of memory,
a residual gist:
if only words
could be solid
and crystalline.
Instead, dust motes
slip silently
through morning
sunlight.
(January 9, 2024)
-
(three of swords: reversed , rider-white)
As I started to leave work last spring,
storm clouds darkened the afternoon.
Then the rain and hail hit.
I couldn’t see the lanes,
nor where the exits were.
Traffic slowed, but did not stop.
Lightening flashed, trees fell.
I tried to see beyond the rain.
This morning, the summer sunleaches any remnant of water
from the cracked black clay.
There are no clouds on the horizon,
only the relentless sun. Soon enough
ice will spread over the dying fields.
(July 27, 2023)
-
Rising each morning,
he finds himself
falling into memory
and its patterned rituals.
Most days do not cohere;
stories slag off as he walks
unsteadily down the stairs.
He does not fragment,
like a shattered mirror,
so much as crumbles
like cheap concrete
into piles of disaggregated
data— isolated numbers
floating in the air. The dust,
briefly, rises into the sun,
then settles like a benediction
across a landscape of sin.
He finds comfort in his ruins,
where the darker horror hides
in the ashes of the mundane.
(January 21, 2023)
subtext 