Posts for June 25, 2020



remember that last afternoon hanging at tar beach
you and me and mike and a cooler full of beer

and the hot so hot sun on our hot so hot skin
shiny from oils we painted each other with

you holding his hand while he held my hand while I held your hand
as we lay on thick towels and sang along

to a boombox blaring skating rink hits over background music
of engines and car horns and children dancing in the spray of the hydrant  

and when we drank enough and toked enough and we thought we were burned enough
we moved to the cooler air of the apartment to share a shower and drink more beer  

and roast hot dogs on the tiny grill on the fire escape
watching the sun slip away behind towers of brick and glass and cement

and one by one fell asleep on the giant pink sofa that filled the tiny space
kissing goodbye in the morning did we even know

this was the last group hug the last see you soon the last weekend
the last weekend 


waffle house

you eatin’ today?
the waitress asks
the man sitting
across from us
as she sets down
his black coffee
he gently shakes
his head and
sips his drink
the woman begins
narrating about
her time working
in a nursing home
and how there
were a lot of
peoole there
suffering from

a flamboyant man
with a stubled face
counts dollar bills
in his hand
and a crowned woman
pulls a basket of eggs
from the refrigerator
and laughs and sings
and cooks our food
so we can all keep going


A Late Father’s Day

Your text has been staring
at me for five days. Five days of typing
only to quickly delete
my thoughts
before ever giving myself a chance
to hit the blue arrow.
You’ve always been missing
from my life,
but there’s your circle.
Locking eyes with me
on my homepage,
giving me no choice but to stare
back, putting you
in the front of my mind
everyday. I just don’t know
if I believe in
19th chances,
maybe tomorrow…


Songs that Play in Times of Solitude

Today we fill the silence
with our daily woes. A looming
death in the family.
The dangers of
hereditary alcoholism.
Why don’t you call more?
I close my eyes
and listen to the gentle
drone of our table fan,
lose myself in its idle
summer hum.

I am full of
nothing. My cup
runneth over with
hollow offerings.
To the tune of tragedy
I offer emptiness as tribute.

The sun hangs low in its 
noose, broadcasts scarlet
fermata final breaths
to an audience of stars.

The thoughts cut deep tonight.
They slip in, uninvited, 
critique every thought
and tear at ambition with
vorpal fangs.
The night stretches on,
endless, before me.
I press pen to paper and bleed.



It is not raining.
See the moon?
a rocking crescent above the pond


The Fork

In the time before she swallowed fear,

the chubby little barefoot girl
traipsed triumphantly down
the center of The Fork.
Stomping in cold shallow waters
and lying on the rocks in the 
summer sun she fingered through 
pebbles and shells in search of
fossilized trilobites and crinoid rings –
jewels for her looted collection. 
She was the queen of the creek.
It would take years and bruises,
to teach her not to marvel too closely 
at the mossy green rocks that danced
in the shifting slants of light
but concealed jagged sharp edges
just beneath the surfaces.
Her steps learned hesitation 
and to pause before being struck by 
hidden snakes whose only agenda
was being hidden snakes.  
Her hands grew timid to learn
what waited buried in the dirt and silt
and the dark pools.
And without a word or a way back,
the girl left The Fork for a more solid road.


Walks in the Garden

Walking through
the garden
in late evening
when the sun
slides behind
the hills and
its rays
spill over
small slits of gold
in patterns
across the ground
transports me
back across
the years touching
each summer
leading up to now,
planting seeds
and weeding
and watching
and waiting.
I carefully place
my feet between
the rows of
and kale,
and beets
and basil.
Breathing in the
sweetness of
tilled dirt
and growing plants,
the cool air heavy
with dew, I soak in
those moments
with my feet
on the earth
and my head
playing memories
stretched across
my days.


Genius and clutter

Einstein’s desk,
the day after he died,
was much like Einstein’s desk
the day before he died.
Genius and clutter
what we cannot.
I hope the clutter 
I leave behind
will be worth enough

for someone to take a picture.


Secrets of a Shameless Selfie

Yes, hon, hold my macchiato
and we can take a selfie.

Going on thirty-one, and so much
I never knew, secrets the universe
kept hidden just out of view:

like how a real man could want
to walk the streets of your hometown
holding tightly onto your hand;

the way the old All-American Rejects
song sounds to you on the radio now,
ringing shame against your eardrums,

nothing reminiscent of the person
sitting beside you in the coffee shop
holding your steaming mug.

Yes, hon, let’s take a selfie.
Let’s pin up this moment
with a grin, save it for a day

when we might forget
what it feels like to be held,
by hand and by heart,

forever in a photo full of secrets
we’ll whisper to each other in the dark. 


An Old Poem Written For Spring

It is almost
the time
I guess
that means
I should be
like the
cherry blossom trees