Posts for June 5, 2026

I am nearly the enabler of a deer’s suicide.
Glass eyes meet mine, mirror, her breath snared
in familiar agonizing hesitation. Leaves whirl. Tires
skid black drags, she slips back, smoke apparition. 

Airbags off, I am deadweight in a sea of tarmac.
I remember the ill turn, cast over the edge, the tug
towards headlights. Angels buoy me in nurse scrubs. 
When I drive, the roads end. There are always sirens.

/

Geese stare into the lake from their red kingdom
of suburban landscaping roses, waiting for an apocalyptic
grand nothing. Expansive and mystic, dark ripples beckon,
call to the apathetic. Deathless, the geese just turn to stone.

Center stage, cold silver water. I wade, floating head,
body dissolving like a salt block. I was nothing more
than a grain the wind. Now painless and quiet, queen
of detachment, even this far out, I fail to drown old sirens.

Daily I bathe in the water of my tears
But a ring of black grief stains the white porcelain     enamel
Of a clawfoot tub  

Lathering my loofah with bamboo powder
I scrub away the cluster of dead skin
Micro tears    raw to the touch  

The mustiness of sorrow wafts from my body
Lingers in the air
I breathe it
Eyes itch    head throbs   
Shortness of breath  

A favorite song played on the radio
The remembrance of a shared meal
A familiar scent spritzed on the nape of the neck
Each causes a flare     triggers  

A decongestant placed on the tongue
Swallowed with a sip of water
Does not relieve the pressure  

A soak in tepid bath water
Will not wash away
The anguish of loss      residue  

I cannot exfoliate grief  

So I must learn to manage its symptoms
Like any unpredictable outbreak

I reached for a prompt

to put my mind at ease enough

to force a spark to ignite what’s left

of this smooth brainflesh bruised,

abused by hours of critical decisions.

But troubled minds don’t fold in on themselves

through actions squeezed down 

the archipelagos of limited choices,

and satiety does not come 

from doing to get out of thinking.

This whole interaction

between acting upon 

and being acted upon 

reminded me why I never reach for prompts:

They never lead me anywhere.

The seven or eight I happened upon tonight

would lead to beautiful, if coerced, constructions,

but prompts don’t lead to answers;

they only lead to action.

Sometimes the best 

action to take

is sitting back and letting the world

use you until 

it asks you what’s wrong.

You will something to say then.

“I tell you true, I am not mad;
observe my way of speech herein.
How clear each image might be had,
in my account of these here sins.  

“Yes, sir! I won’t lie. I hate lies—
and liars, too—them most of all.
And that damned, deserving-to-die,
Sir Petral has that wherewithal.  

“Well. He had that wherewithal.  
All I did was take it out of him.
It was in his heart, see, there, there, through which the blood would crawl.
And I only fixed my bloody art on that one who deserved it. 

“‘Why did he deserve it?’ you ask?
what a bloody foolish question!
You’d not seen under his mask
if you’d make such a suggestion.”  

May as well ask if a pig deserves the slaughterhouse or if a trap deserves the mouse— “
“Yes, sir, yes,”
—he got what was coming to him, I was the cat—
“I do confess.”
—and all he was was a louse,
and that is all there is to that.

“And you think me, I, mad?
Would a madman lie?
Would a madman know she’s about to die?
Only observe how well I know. How bad.”

you can keep lying to yourself
that it will get done by someone else
prepared that no one really cares
but you
and even then only just enough
to get by
the level is impossible so
why even attenpt or try
to get enough tokens
for a few more seconds
or minutes in survival mode
on Arcade difficulty 
you don’t mind the clock
you watch the other players,
gather the things you need
find a not too obvious
place to hide

and prepare to be the last
standing, or to just
fucking score as many points as possible

because no one
is coming to save you

The best thing you ever done for me
is to help me take my life less seriously.
It’s only life after all.
“Closer to Fine” –Indigo Girls

Sunday mornings, my dad and I
drove to the next town over for church.
He cracked the window to smoke,
but never enough, because it was
always in my face.
He had his music, and I was
never without a book.
I don’t remember any conversation,
but I remember us singing along
with the Indigo Girls and Tracy Chapman–
definitely not church-approved music.
If I put the right song on the car radio,
I can pretend it’s Sunday morning,
and he’s here with me again. 

I hope you see my face 

in every crowd you encounter,

and as your smile drops 

when you meet a stranger’s eyes, 

I hope it swings 

like Judas

my love kisses me in recovery, he tells me I smell like flowers. 
I inhale the scent of a new casket spread, of freshly mown graveyards. 
These lily of the valley encounters: 

the long shadow of morning hours,
hospital bouquets with their get-well-soon cards,
my love kisses me in recovery. He tells me I smell like flowers.

I think of dying trees, leaves, and flower
petals. Once, I mistook autumn for spring as a child. 
These daisy and white lily encounters:

blooms of chemotherapy flowering,
deep roots within me, what are the odds
my love kisses me in recovery and tells me I smell like flowers?

The many hands that folded in prayer
have left me smelling of yarrow.
What a gift I have encountered. 

How blessed we are to have this time of ours,
my love and I, with our two brave hearts.
He tells me I smell like flowers.
I smile bright as a chrysanthemum. 

If you went southbound this weekend you’d meet your nephew
Nobody’s seen you in town since Christmastime
The lights have been stored away for months
There’s dust that’s long been settled
Your brother is not your dad

Even the Bears are going south, I heard
You could always come back, too

a poem that’s not coming to me
a deadline that’s barrelling towards me
old CHiPs reruns on TV
(the good old days
before Jon left the show)
ill advised cherry coke
out of my really cool guardians of the galaxy cup
conversations about the price of ketchup
there are worse ways to spend
the last minute