The ground shimmers
beneath my feet;
I reach out to find
a wall to steady
the loss of gravity,
until time gathers
the disparate shapes
back into me.
I’ve heard this before—
again, too often.
So much so,
I stop listening:
I know how it ends;
we all know the end.
(April 11, 2026)
by
I do not sing these songs
as much as mutter
over what I notice
like an itinerant priest
parsing last rites randomly
to people passing outside
nevertheless I trust what I say
matters yet to whom or how
I do not pretend to know
there is a truth to poetry
I will never understand
for it occurs without my help
I have become resigned to it
as with much of my life
things happen as they happen
(April 7, 2026)
by
He is in a chair in an empty room. It is dark outside.
He is in the same room, in the same chair. Light comes through a window.
He has questions, but is hesitant to ask. Unsure of the answer he seeks.
His uncertainty is his fear. He sits still for hours at a time.
The room never changes. The furniture is static and old.
The room is not the same, depending on where you look. Depending on where you sit.
The room was new once. The room is always empty.
The room filled with furniture slowly over time.
There are windows. They are shut, without curtains.
When the lights are on you can see in the room from the street.
There is nothing to see, but white walls without art.
There are windows, one cannot see much outside.
He holds his breath for minutes at a time.
When he feints, he quickly recovers.
(April 6, 2026)
by
I wrote this a couple of years ago…
“to combat the resistances of language you must keep talking”–Anne Carson
I write most everyday. Since the end of last August, I have filled up two 150-page notebooks, completed close to 80 short poems. I have written, if not so obsessively as now, since I was 15. I write poetry, with the occasional venture into essays like this one. I have trouble with narrative, one event leading into another befuddles me, as does conversation between people. So I do not write fiction. Yet, I do have an interior running commentary on the narrative I am living, snipes and admonitions on my life as it unfolds. To push back against this cruel eviscerating voice, which adheres tightly within my skin, I write. I write to explain the world to myself, to explain myself to myself, to resist the world, which is lain upon me by the world. I write to resist the temptation to settle into myself without a thought. I am uncomfortable in most social situations. It’s discomforting when others try to define me, or attempt to interpret me from my writing. Yes, I am aware that all writer’s expose their minds in their writing. Even writers of fiction expose themselves through their fictional characters. Nietzsche wrote that in the end we only experience ourselves. Yet, I believe there is also a separation from oneself, a leap into the universal other, which occurs when one writes: a transubstantiation of individuality into a larger third person narrator, who watches and observes with more objective, more just, eye. Of course, I also know this is pure bullshit. I am as clotted with my biases and situation as anyone. But it is through writing, through the transformative nature of writing, where a third space can open, and one can enter along with whomever can follow into a changed world, a different, perhaps better place, if only for the time it takes to read the poem. And to keep from being defined, trapped even in these new spaces, I continue to write, to find a way to exist with myself.
(February 28, 2017)
I try to see
what’s in front of me—
but most of the time,
it’s hard to pay attention.
Too often, I’m blinded
just stepping toward a door
which then causes the day
to shimmer inside a memory
like sunlight on the surface
of a creek as it meanders
through the trees. So, I stop
mid-way on my path
to regather myself,
and wait for the moment
to arrive fully formed.
Much as a poem folds
the pretense of meaning
within images which echo
across each other like bats
swerving through the night
searching for food.
(April 4, 2026)
by
The dogs sleep in balls
tightly curled next to my chair.
Roses bloom outside.
(April 3, 2026)
I’m bored
as I write
this poem—
Not too much here
that is not mine
to ruminate:
the mistakes,
and broken desires
left behind
in memory
clot the way
with the pretense
of fate. Only fate
is just the past:
I’m here reading
what I write,
because I’m here,
not somewhere else
reading something
else I wrote today.
Somedays are destined
to be something else
which could have
happened somehow
on a warm afternoon
after a yawn or two,
but then didn’t.
(April 2, 2026)
The dogs are disturbed;
their morning routine
has changed. They know it.
They follow closely
as I do not follow
their daily pattern.
They are anxious
for the future
to be the past,
for their bowls to be
filled with kibble
on time, now.
They know the past
is not prologue; the past
is the future; the past is
now. They know it.
Their dark eyes full
of soul follow me
through the house
wondering why
I do not know anything,
so simple,
about time.
(April 1, 2026)
by
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)
“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)
by
three years ago
at sixty-three
after thirty-four years
I stopped teaching
I stopped taking
anti-depressants
stopped drinking
as much
the night terrors
though not stopped
are less frequent
and less frantic
I am not somebody
out of a capra film
nor a famous nobody
listening to frogs sing
I am me— an old man
who still loves lisa
and writes little poems
few people will read
(March 16, 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)
by
It has been awhile since I read a sweeping epic of a sci-fi novel. I guess it is still awhile to go, since there are like nine more volumes of the series which are collected under the name The Expanse. I probably will not read the rest of the series. This is not to say I did not enjoy Leviathan Wakes, because I did have a good time. I read the book over the last few days. While it is over 500 pages long, it is a fast read uncluttered as it is with the subtleties of an analysis of the human condition. This is not to say it lacks depth, although the book is focused on the narrative more than sweeping themes. It does touch lightly upon colonialism; prejudices and bigotry against those not in your tribe (Earth v. Mars, Earth and Mars v. the Belt); corporations too powerful and focused on gathering more wealth and power over the interests of the people; science v. humanity; loyalty; honor; and love as a unifying force. But I could be over-reading the novel. As they say, sometimes a cigar is just a cigar. I would have loved these books as a teen ager. There is an equally enjoyable television series, The Expanse, which arose from the books. Both the book and the series are worth the time it would take to enjoy them. Sometimes escapism in literature is a good thing.
(March 13, 2026)
