Like a goose trapped under a car
because the car didn’t stop for it
and instead seemed to speed up—
like that, but what is it that’s like that?
It’s like we’re all vehicle, no tenor.
All vehicle, no tenderness. Even so,
the goose manages to waddle away
as onlookers’ mouths, stretched
to empty eggs, deflate—not hatch,
no, nothing is born here, like this.
Waves drop and roll on Terran coasts
Brazil, Hawaii, Baja, Tobago
any beach broadly known
or kept close to the nose
Easy green palm seashores
beige sand stamped with
ROY-G-BIV umbrellas
for a league, maybe more
a tie-dye mosaic of swimsuits and skin
Breathe it in
wading out into Neptune’s royal blue
straddling their surf boards
patiently they wait
the steady 4/4 tempo beat of waves
wind-given
to glide the crest
arms outstretched
stay stable, stay calm in all that crashing joy
immerse in azure unscathed
by turquoise sea horses
foaming white at the mouth
sometimes thrown
pushed pulled plunged
into aqua gravity
alone but amongst friends
The surfer becomes submarine
a body in paddling synch
in a slow stride
A dolphin beginning to breach
and reaching for their dashed board
tethered to them by a playful cord
they breathe, bob happily in between
all that glides beneath
and whichever wave comes next
They run shops
like captains at sea,
yet can’t understand
numbers of a sidewall.
“Give me the cheapest,” they demand.
An expensive 10-ply is required.
Not caring, they repeat their desire.
Weight means nothing,
until something snaps.
Specs are mere whispers
in a storm of pride.
Load ranges? Alphabet confusion.
Tread depth? Proof they failed math.
They float on confidence,
anchored to nothing.
As I hold the line—
voice calm,
hands bruised
from lifting truth
they refuse to carry.
Yet, even in their fog,
a light flickers:
a question asked sincerely,
a thank-you without sarcasm.
It’s then I remember—
I’m not just selling rubber.
I’m sowing trust
on roads they’ll never thank me for.
As we emerge from hallways,
the rain raps down like judgment.
Sirens sweep us through bluegrass
milestones, leave us hovering
so deep in the museum.
Near a small wooden stage front,
hands ache to play and applaud.
……
102. Nobody’s perfect.
103. You post about invading a smaller country all Nazi-like to rid them of Nazis, followed up with an LOL and #latvia, and then tag Volodymyr Zelenskyy, but don’t even receive a like, much less a laughing emoji, from a cool guy you considered a friend.
104. The very same guy reneges on your pact to pose shirtless on horseback for a photoshoot celebrating shirtless men on horseback without the courtesy of so much as a phone call explaining why, thus engendering feelings of rejection anathema to the inherent geniality of the noble steed.
104b. Such feelings were augmented by the breezy yet rugged masculinity on display in the photographs themselves—that’s something you could have shared together and looked back on fondly for years to come.
105. An elaborate April Fool’s prank gone awry. Concealed within a tank was a bar of soap saturated in see-through nail polish, a time-honored Russian Den’ duraka tradition sure to yield “a fake smile and some eye-rolling”1.
……
[1] From “Celebrate April Fool’s Day Like A Russian” https://news.itmo.ru/en/features/life_in_russia/news/13689/
You dared me to
i’ve aged decades this year
and my knees may never recover
i’m kept awake at night by the aches in my bones
and loud thumping of my chest
shoving fingers deep into my ear drum
to quiet the hum
careful not to furrow my brow too tightly
or it might never come down
this year has aged me decades
left me brittle and sour
desperate to be young again
in spirit and in body
still each day molds me like a cheese
and not a glass of wine
This blade of grass is mine.
I earned it, over time
And time again, I’m sure.
I stepped on it and more
And over it I’m sure.
I hope it doesn’t mind.
And some I wore away
While going on my way
To wander here and there.
I chased a butterfly
I sang unto the sky
And watched a deer close by.
Oh little blade of grass,
Forgive as I pass,
I’m only passing time.
For John L. Stanizzi
Margaret repeats kyrie eleison
and I don’t know what it means,
though I know it has to do with the church,
a place I haven’t been since
I was a student of Johnnie’s.
I’m seeing him praise poetry
live on zoom, for the first time
in fifteen years.
I can’t get over how differently
the same he looks,
still wearing Rasta colors,
in a fabric we would’ve called
a drug rug in high school.
I see his face screw downward
as he listens, the same way
he would when we listened
to Thelonious in his fifth period
Jazz & Poetry class.
I wish I could still search
for his approval
when it didn’t feel like begging.
I think he’s the reason
I love art as much as I do.
When Professor Singer’s
father for the first time cried,
I realized how much stronger
these octogenarians are
than I am.
Until he reads
his poem about his dental hygienist
and I remember he is just a man.
But I don’t know him.
His students are in the chat,
as I am for Johnnie, so perhaps
he’s worthy of the same.
his pronouns are
in his display name anyhow,
so maybe he’s more
than an old man at an open mic.
This reading is nothing like Silas House.
There is no bright green hair,
nose piercings or combat boots.
There’s no theme for Marla,
but she starts out reading worms
and I know I’ll love her.
She reads to me like I’m a child.
Marla is funny,
the first of the four corners
to make me laugh tonight.
But like all great works of humor,
you’re caught in the trap by the end
and tears of joy turn sour like
the pickle juice she squirted in her nose.
But she brings me back to elation again
with walking the dog without a bra.
Then we move to Johnnie
and his voice deposits me
back into his classroom
at Bacon Academy,
the way he lingers on his Ts.
I can’t write my emotions
fast enough,
all I know is he devastates me
and then builds me back up again.
And then Kat says Johnnie
was her teacher too and
she read us a poem,
about cunnilingus
and it wrapped
up everything you need to
know about the truth with
which Johnnie taught us.
No topic needed kid gloves or
shame and it did more for me
than any math class
taught by a man who stood over us
and glared at our incorrect answers.
When I was congratulated
by my fellow pomos
for my risk and vulnerability
I have to thank Staniz
