Posts for 2025 (page 98)

It’s over.
The bank account is empty.
The tires are bald and flat.
A wheeze punctuates my breakfast In the cold gray of January morn.
The fullness is now lank.
The dog is asleep, hibernating.
The wealth has whittled way to penury,
Bit by bit
Morsel on the lapel
Brushed away in distraction.
I like this emptiness
This meanness.
Not much left to lose.
It is the rich tonal depth of a tube amp and Fender tele.
Hollow, bright, insouciant of itself.
I am that tone
At my best.
When the direction of the gods becomes me
A glowing conduit for electric movement
That takes
Me,
Us,
All,
Unaware and something happens,
Magic.
A joke.
A misguided fastball lifted over the fence
Or a career.
The start of the friendship with The Goddess I share in my life.
An incidental interaction
On the street
Gone like a trifle but In accordance with a greater design than mine.

Footsteps crunching in the snow
Such a lovely sound in twelve degree
Dry January hangover

It leans toward the sun, unashamed of wanting warmth. Each leaf holds the curve of a green flame, soft at the edge, sharp at the scent. I brush my fingers against it, and it answers—not with words, but with memory: of kitchens heavy with garlic and steam, of hands tearing leaves into bowls like blessings.

Basil is not new. It has walked beside us through centuries. In the courtyards of India, it was holy. In the markets of ancient Rome, medicinal. The Greeks named it for kings. In Haiti, it guarded the doorway to the spirit world. In medieval Europe, it was feared and revered in equal breath—thought to sprout only when cursed, yet tucked into pockets to ward off evil.

And now, it grows in a clay pot on my deck. No altar, no temple. Just the sun, the breeze, and my quiet admiration. It asks for so little—light, water, a touch—and gives so much: flavor, comfort, memory, ritual. I cannot walk past without touching it. I cannot taste a tomato without thinking of it.

Sometimes, I close my eyes and I’m in my grandmother’s kitchen. The blender hums. Basil, pine nuts, parmesan, garlic. A little olive oil. She calls it pesto, but it is more than a sauce—it is a spell. She spoons it into a bowl, and we sit at the table with sleeves rolled up and sleeves of saltines. No ceremony, just the afternoon sun and the sound of us crunching, dipping, savoring. A sacred snack. A small joy that feels like a ritual. 

Basil does not bloom with flowers,

but with memory.

And when it does,

I am safe. I am home.

how do I make my
body calm down? this sucks. fuck!
everything sucks. fuck.

Descend to the misericord,
half-cantilever, half-secret:
a mercy-seat that bears your weight
only if you bend.

Beneath you,
grotesques, green men, grylloi,
foxes with chalices,
apes with miters,
a woodwose curling
in relief.

Above you, a hammerbeam roof
like a ribcage,
rood screen removed,
still haunted.

The angels see your unworthiness,
your entire epistemology.

in the attic
forgotten words 
scribbled 
on dreams found
in dusty boxes
escaping to
              nothing
psycho trash

Living with you, Ike, is one long tornado-driven hailstorm.
I did not appreciate bullets in my ass and blood on my leather.
Damn lucky my 20-gallon fuel tank wasn’t hit.  

My tires scream as cops chase us through Lexington –
            west on Main            
            left on Upper            
            right on High Street heading home. 
How my leaf springs groan under the weight of whiskey.
I slosh when you slam to a stop or swing into a curve;
wheels scrape curbs while my chassis
sways like Marion Davie’s hips.  

Touring cars cargo well, but,
Ike, like all your women,
my closed, aluminum body is top-heavy.

One minute you caress me
polish my Dupont Duco blue lacquer paint
change my oil and spark plugs
wash my windows inside and out.  

The next minute you devil drive me —
bang the break-pedal to the floorboards
then expect me to plunge into my 48.7 horsepower?
            Inertia, Ike!  

For now, I’m unstable yet unstoppable.
I’ve got spirit, but a girl needs a little tenderness.
One of these days you’ll miss an apex
and there I’ll be –
            one more used up flapper.        

rescued our neighbor’s 13-year-old
calling for help when a break-in
occurred where she was babysitting.

finished mowing the grass for our
disabled neighbor when her
husband was away on business.

held me tight the night my
Mom passed in our home
after weeks of hospice. 

convinced our daughter it’s
okay to start her new job
after the video on robberies
created unfounded fears. 

searched at 3am for a Coke
at a Domnica resort as I lay
clinging to consciousness in
our room from low blood sugar.

stroked my cheeks
locked eyes with mine
telling me he loved me
knowing his time was up.

would jump in swift water
to save that drowning girl.

The sign on the bridge
across the Ohio read
welcome but it was
the cicadas who sang it
so we knew we’d arrived home.

It’s been red vs. blue
for so long we’ve been numbed
and blinded
to the real battle
between the oligarchs in power
and me and you.
Corrupt men
propped up by mountains of bodies,
oil-slicked waters,
flat-top mountains,
landfills, dollars drenched in sweat and tears
hard-fought but easily and gleefully stolen
by those who would claim
they serve in the people’s name.
They raise the temperature
and poison the water.
It doesn’t matter to them
in their conclaves
air-cooled and charcoal-filtered.
They won’t feel the effects of their actions
and they care nought about the generations
they leave behind.
They spin their divisive threads of rhetoric
and keep spears pointed at each other
our heads barely above the water
struggling so hard to keep afloat
we don’t notice the water they dump in.
This country
once so proud and acclaimed
now cannot even claim
the United in its name.