Draft
Another day
I did not earn
So much can be said at a ulogy.
Some day the taste of karma
Will lay upon the lips of those
Whom have such a heart as thine
When my spawn stand before those eyes
And those tongues that scarred their ears
Like swords with piercing words through the night
They will sprinkle salt over the ashes
With the hope that the very taste of regret
Lay lingering on those lips forever.
Those people that dole out mercy
like it is going out of style
fail to remember those times in their lives
when every strand of every possible future
depended on a single person’s decision.
While those of us who have tasted
of mercy’s sweet lips
may come to expect it across too many fields of our lives,
what happens far more often
is people learn instead to ration it
like strawberry ice cream on a too-hot summer day.
But no one ever appreciates
something they deny others,
and no one ever learns to hope for
something others have denied them.
So in this infernal summer
we find ourselves sweating through,
practice generosity if discretion does not suit you,
because mercy sounds so much better than might.
The great heat etched it’s way into Lexington,
filling up concrete trucks with mohair
trapping us under thick transparent walls
and forcing us to always breathe the same tsp of air all the day
As a reward
The sky was filled with orange creamsicle skyscrapers
That boiled and froze and spewed over the top
of their imaginary glass rims
Tipping over into puddles of cool respite
you uttered that phrase
while we sat covered in
shingle grit and sweat
your wrist over the steering wheel
smoldering filtered camel
between tar stained fingers
a country song punching through
the static void radio crunch
some song about a broken hearted man
that had it coming
wished I had a rebuttal
but I was twenty one
with my first son
and a bottomed
out bank account
with no hope of crawling out
so it became my mantra
until I realized
the lie wrapped up
in the toxic masculinity
but he let it run him through
punched his number
his work
roofs, buildings, furniture
a reminder of where he was
and wasn’t
my tiny heartbeat feet do a jig
The humid summer air smothered
Like a wet wool blanket
I walked past the bar
And the cloyingly sweet stench
Of barley and hops
Filled my nose in full assault
I hate beer
Memories heavy as air
Assault my senses
Gulping strawberry Boone’s Farm
Chasing the occasional swig
From the Kessler bottle
Pulled from the pocket
Of Joe’s faded Wranglers
The good ol’ boys
Who barely graduated high school
And were on a first name basis
With the bootlegger two hollers over
Chugging can after can
Laughter replaced by crooked punches
And scuffling about in the dirt
The wanna be frat boy
Nearly old enough to be my daddy
With his big flex
That his license was reinstated last week
Attached to the neighbor girl
Who already had too much
But doesn’t know it yet
Joe taking it all in
As he tosses another empty can
I force down the vomit
Gathering in the back of my throat
When he plunges his tongue in my mouth
Before I can push him away
I hate beer
I’m trying
not to lose the momentum,
the impetus,
the drive and determination
to write 30 poems this month.
Already I’m counting the days I’ve missed,
castigating myself for skipping
even though I was
traveling,
tired,
uninspired.
Can I find my groove
and grind out 7 more?
I’ll be back here tomorrow night,
trying to find some words
that will make a poem
if I fit them together right.
They come in packs of 100,
yet I’ve never used more than 6
at a time, maybe 12, 15 to be safe.
Okay, just give me 25.
If we shared the other 75,
we’d never have to manufacture them again.
If the world were an office drawer,
there’s more than enough to spare.
Still we house the other 75
in decorative jars and vases
just in case we need them.
I’ve never needed them.
I never wanted to be right.
I only wanted to be understood —to have someone step into my world for just a moment and see things through my eyes.
Not to argue.
Not to defend.
But to listen. To feel. To try.
Because sometimes, the deepest pain isn’t in being wrong—it’s in being unheard. In having your truth brushed aside like it doesn’t matter. Like your heart is speaking in a language no one wants to learn.
And still—I speak.
Not to win.
But to be seen.
To be heard.
To be held with care, even in conversation.
So if you ever truly want to love me—don’t chase who’s right.
Just walk with me through how I feel.
Because understanding speaks louder than winning.
And empathy matters more than being correct.
