Posts for June 3, 2026 (page 12)

A yellow No. 2 pencil and a crumpled pink notepad —  Corral disorder into a list – groom dogs,  wash dishes,  read Moll Flanders.  Mow, sweep, mop, weep.  Use Philips head screwdriver on monthly budget:  twist utility costs into level billing: predictability comforts.  Strings strung into a line of ability – unaided walking, self-reliance of scrubbing the toilet, cleaning the refrigerator, poop scooping the yard.  Wrap that string round and round to disguise dotage of vision with gratitude for audioboooks. Camouflage the thready core of uncertainty with physical therapy,  Gabapentin, ice packs, traction, Ultra Strength Tiger Balm on the right shoulder. A jungle of twist ties clutters contents, hides items I need – corkscrew, can opener, tape measure,  my confidence caught in the tangle.  That messy rainbow of wire must go —  worries tossed into black plastic garbage bags and hauled to psychic dumpsters. I discover a bundle of red, yellow and blue cable ties: attach tomato vines to the fence,  bird feeder to its pole, a blue tarp on the woodpile.    Espalier mulberry branches,  divide frustrations into stems:  wrestle Zoom links,  mow lawn, weed garden, trundle trash to the curb.   

Be wary of zip ties cuffing wrists to indecision.  

1
coffee shop
bursting with color
art explodes
everywhere her
exhuberance 
lives on  – Third Street

2
Devine Hip Hop
King his beats vibe
for justce his
heart breaks for kids
his mission saves

3
Jack lives under
a railroad bridge with
sleeping bags
and blankets…I leave
chocolate bars in his lair

4
rapscallions and aging
pirates
celebrating life and lust
music and booze
Thursday Night Live

5
the sign says
“Immigrants Belong Here”
Carnegie Center
where writers teach
…and thrive

    ~circa 2001 

that look just like goose necks standing
in a gaggle at the top of the steps. 

The necks of geese in basketball shirts and 90’s 
boy band haircuts. Jelled bangs. Bowl cuts.

Was this beauty or money?

A cotillion of boys who look like water fowl
gathering before the first bell, near the doric columns.

Was this beauty or having
a dad who coached a sport?

These long limbed boys laughing their faces
turned up toward the morning sun before school.

Was this having a dad who
had a sense of humor?

Was this having a dad?
Was this beauty?

These tanned, puka-shelled boys honking
at the nonsense words they made up

to say hey, this is our flocking
flock, you motherflockers.

Was this teenage heartthrob Johnathan Taylor Thomas
and Josh Hartnett? Was this living

on the edge of a golf course
or next to horses on a farm?

When the bell rings they take to the
halls, a flyway, a breeding ground,
a resource-rich habitat. Ancient. Cyclical.

1.
In the early hours of morning I witness
an interaction between two ants
on the sidewalk before me.

One so tiny, I only noticed it
by the many times larger
flake of whatsit held like a sail,

the other, a carpenter ant
even larger still.
A miniscule David vs. Goliath

on the verge battle.

2.
I was merely sitting at the bar when she spotted
my notebook–curious within the realm of alcohol–
so of course she had to come and say hello.
We closed the bar with our conversations.

Hell yeah, I got her number. I opened
an avenue for deeper discussion, different directions
then sat down at home looking at those digits like
what the hell am I supposed to do with this?

Meanwhile, the DJ’s and my first interaction that year
was a wee hour game of Cards Against Humanity.
He was so completely, hopelessly sure he had the win
but my play was far too inappropriately appropriate.

Little did I know, he had gotten the same girl’s number
and he held all the Spades in flirtation.
A week of silence on my end–unsure of what to say–
left for them all the room to build a heaven of their own.

3.
The two ants in seemingly random trajectory
happened to turn in a way head-to-head,
a meeting that saw
the larger ant rip a flake of whatsit
straight out of a tiny ant’s tiny mandibles.

In other words,
get fucked loser
you never stood a chance.

4.
Another year, another girl wandering outside
to that curious guy reading books at the pub. She asked
What’s the worst thing you have ever done?
We conversed until the Uber came to drive her home.

Hell yeah, I got her number. With an understanding
to at least try to put myself out there. She ended one night
with a sweet dreams, Phil, and I was in freefall.
At last it seemed the universe had chosen me.

Little did I know, the barkeep had also been smitten
and he had all the charisma of one who nurtures barflies
with right things to say and alluring invitations.
She discovered some nights have brighter stars than others.

5.
Tiny inconsequential David ant, I hope,
when your potentially greatest success so far
was snatched by another Goliath ant,
that you were still able to return
to the colony that gave you life,
falling back into tasks of daily upkeep–
purpose amongst adversity–
going on to find a new flake of whatsit
larger and more nourishing than the last.

6.
Growth
is coming to terms with the fact
that these people never did me any wrong
but that doesn’t mean they didn’t take some of my light.
Forgiveness is pardoning the bad and the good.

Responsibility
is recognizing
it’s not another’s job to help you shine
but oh, it gets so lonely
living as a dim and distant star,
yet labored light I emit.

Acceptance
is acknowledging
the random freeflows of sonder
and how people get thrown into each other.

Grace is seeing the truth of the matter:
-It is I who always wastes it all away, sequestered in anxious silence.
-The DJ had no clue he was not alone in his pursuit.
-I was just another open tab to that barkeep.
-The girls discerned what they wanted,
      made the best decisions for themselves.

And a Goliath ant
might simply have never seen
the David ant
eclipsed by a flake of whatsit.

You have chosen to escape to the woods

To escape the feral desires you inject yourself into of every cavern of humankind 

Hoping to find respite from your lingering thoughts

The creeping feeling of disgust that locks adhesions into your shoulders

Sleep never finds you as your heavy, hot limbs

Fumble aimlessly within the cocoon of misery laid upon your bed

Early morning rises after you

Sinking feet into a creek that slaps around your tender ankles

Hoping pleasure can find you

Or you it

Pleasure not from touch that is skin to skin

But from some other vessel far greater than your own wants

The contention of your needs pulls heavy on your heart

As if it rips, shattering your sternum, ribs cracking like eggshells

Falling into the sandy water around your feet

You dropping into the murky mess you’ve made

Knees heavy against rocks, iron laced water swirling under palms

The sensations felt as you lay your body into the water

As if Mother Earth is now your succubus

Pulling out from your low belly a guttural heave of letting go

A concubine that carries from you all your pain, anguish, sorrow, and shame

Though she carries she never holds just like the water beneath you

Spilling out into the darkness below, all swirling around, to never see again

The swelling of lust so heavy to burst through your middle

Your body like a heavy mound of pulsating friction and fire

That rolls clumsily with and through the smalls waves

A leak sprung of your manhood pathetically lost

Spirits of the trees and the wind song of the dead

Laughing at your disgrace while watching with eager eyes

Even in your solitude you can’t escape it

Forever bound to the want of releasing yourself

Never able to look in upon yourself

To be with all that you actually are

Thinking if you let this part go you’ll never need to feel connection

Your purpose never firm just like your loose morals

You will never love another because you have nothing to love about yourself

Good?

Bad?

I don’t know

But I saw a guy bent down near a truck tire

I pulled over and approached him

From the wrong angle

To see if he needed help

And scared the bejeezus out of him

He gasped and exclaimed

OH Goddamn!,

Clutching his chest

I quickly apologized for startling him

He said it’s fine, no worries

Just cleaning my whip’s wheels

Man, I just got stoned and was knee-deep in thought, cleaning this thing up — just shining my rims

We laughed heartily and went back

To our respective tasks

I spend four days on Garrison 
on the outskirts of Tower Park.

Sleep til late with the windows open.
Water all the planters in the early afternoon 
when I can feel the beads of sweat
rolling down my back into the lip of my jeans.

On a whim, I run the back trails,
rip down rutted washes and pray
against broken ankles
on jutting roots and rocks. 

If it’s nice out, I pace the sidewalks,
watch families fill up tables, 
stretch out on swim towels and beach blankets,
squeal and scramble on new bikes.

I bake croissants and burn my fingers,
stand over boiling water until my hair curls, 
drop french fries on the floor for the dog
to snuffle up and swallow.

I crank the window in the shower, listen
to birds while I line my bottles on the sill. 
The cat watches when I slide the curtain back
but he’ll never let me touch him. 

If I’ve really reached for boredom,
and its some time close to seven
I’ll stretch out on the floor in the kitchen
and wait to see if he’ll come and find me. 

When I’m staring at the ceiling, I wonder
at how easy it is to abandon all that came before.

My seasonal affective doesn’t need
A daily planner to mope and snarl,
To remember to forget to take its meds,
To hold on to grudges authored
By amnesia and codeine.  

But sometimes it loses its calendar.
It’s insulted when Spring flings
pastels in windows still reserved
for February’s bruised vistas. Wounds heal, lacerations
scab into ruddy blossoms, florid treetops.  

Spring yanks the yard’s numberless ripened
pull tabs and I mow on command.
My seasonal affective mumbles, “conformist bastard,”
slips into a flannel and squints in sunshine
among potted plants too thirsty to pucker.

I tell a new friend of my history—
how God raised me a skeptic,
when he welcomed me home
twice on Sunday, and once mid-week

I think of the boy
with the guitar, unkempt curls driving
preacher’s daughter wild
she shared my heart for mischief;
we led a village safe for doubts

shaggy soccer star
still appears in my dreams,
twenty year memory
of young love unrequited,

handwritten notes
on worn worship programs
next to doodles by attentionless artists

music we were banned from,
in the back of our minds
drowned out by the organ wailing,
hymns mumbled together,
pretending we were too cool

to sing.

I lost my religion
and first learned community
in a group of youths

looking down

from old balcony pews.

my love,
what passes
and
what persists
in this present life
in this earthly realm
I do not know–
rather
here in this moment now
you instruct me
in delight and mystery
with your simple presence
timeless source
of wonder
that is ordinary you