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Slurred Memory
circa 1979
The night is close
to the day. My head’s
thick with whiskey
and bitter ideas.
My hands ache. I find
it hard to speak
at length without
losing words, or how
to say them. So, I wait
and listen to the silence
for the words to stop
their emotional slither,
and allow me to go
home, alone again.
(July 16, 2026)
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The Loneliness of Memory
by
Your hands dance the air
as you sit across the table
describing an event we shared
decades ago in our youth.
We are both there as before;a sequence of events similar
enough to be the same events;
yet, causality and context shift.
Like Wittgenstein, it dawnson me slowly that the story
you are telling is not the one
I have told about love’s loss.
You ask why I’m crying;I realize you never knew.
(July 15, 2026)
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To Find a Way
As a child, I studied old paper maps;
the folded, stained, and torn gas station maps
Dad used to follow the back country roads
into the Texas oil fields to find work.
I’d trace my fingers down the thin lines
leading away from where I was living
through the small black dots signifying towns
and larger amorphous yellow cities.
I read books with imaginary maps
full of dark rivers, and magic mountains
where characters stepped lightly from legend
and wandered with clear purpose and meaning.
While at home, I’d find my place on maps,
and make a way toward any where else.
(July 14, 2026)
-
I’ve Been Here Before
by
What can I do
with conjugations
of being— beyond
a fool’s confession?
I’ve been here before.Hours hurry past the window
like soft grey mice
skittering between shadows.
The sun slowly approachesthe eastern horizon
as if a mendicant
with an empty bowl.
My impatience vaultsover the obvious words;
I have difficulties
reading as a result.
I crib lines from bookslifting them out of context,
then go down paths
that refuse to exist.
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by
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Terra Incognita
As bare brown feet dance for rain,
a wind stirs the distant leaves.
I move lost as usual
through the slow everyday tasks,
as if it is some place new,
some place I have never been;
a place that rises from the dust
of drought-dry caliche roads.
In between where we are, andwhere we were in history,
I move against the dark sky
and watch clouds form like old maps
which leave space for new monsters
to thrash in violent seas.
-
Ten Years ago otd
by
I wrote this in a small PD conducted by Carrie Fountain for the English Department I worked in at the time.
subtext 