Posts for June 23, 2026

I felt grief today.
In the oddest of ways.
I unfollowed someone who passed away.

I was in a rush, trying to get my follow count down.
The prompt asked, “Are you sure?”
As the action couldn’t be undone.

I was speedily clicking, yes, yes, yes.
I was eager to lower the number below my following.
Because I wanted to be like the “cool kids.”

I got into a routine, not paying attention to who I was parting ways with.
I mean, the list he was on was “least interacted with.”
What did it matter?

But it did.

The moment mattered when I realized I unfollowed him.
I don’t know why that made me feel like I lost something.
The thought of never being able to follow him again invaded my mind,
because the profile was set to private.

I will never see that media again.

Interestingly, while he was living, we weren’t even close.
He dated my friend and had a child with someone else I knew.
He wasn’t family, but I did date his brother.

After reflecting on the consequences of my actions,
I immediately felt sadness.

I remembered I still had him as a friend on another social media platform.
That provided some solace.
But I will never see that media again.

I decided to be more careful,
because I have others who have ascended in my follow count.
I still have the deceased in my phone contacts.

As people I know pass, I create digital photo albums featuring them.
I visit their social media pages. 
I keep screenshots of our messages…

I rarely feel deep pain or loss at the news of their transition.
It’s only when I lose the memories and connection—

the grief sets in.

I can imagine my own life twisted

through a hundred iterations

spilled through the sieve

of a single weighty choice.

I can imagine a thousand fates 

befalling our nation, 

tomorrow, the next day, and the next,

but whenever I try to mold my life around you

and the future that flows from you,

I see only shades of the past.

Some individuals picture nothing

when given a word or an idea to mull over,

yet my visualizations only help me

when I need to be somewhere else,

focusing on something else.

What does it mean 

that I cannot imagine

a future with both of us in it?

Is it brain damage? Or naïveté?

Or some vengeful dented destiny?

I like to imagine, deeper than dreaming,

that my source of missing mental material

derives from the fact 

that I have not yet met you,

so I cannot envision 

what our lives would be like together.

If that is aphantasia,

then I will sit with my own madness 

until you fill it. 

Are you better than me?

Sitting high above the tree top

Soaking in the beautiful sun rays

Viewing the birds soar and glide

Admiring the beautiful flowers blooming

As I sit bellow taking in the micro sun rays

Slowly piercing through the leaves between us

Cold and alone

I view the worms below awaiting my arrival

The ants preparing the table

A bag to be raked in

Shriveling to dust to be blown by the wind

Maybe that is the best

Then I can be higher than you to

Soak in the beautiful sun rays to

View the birds soar and glide to

Admire the beautiful flowers blooming

There are some things 
A person goes through 
Just can not be explained 
Unless experienced 
No amount of words 
No amount of action 
No amount of recant 
Will convey to another 
The essence of hearing 
Your child’s cry
For the first time
After the wait
Of nine long months

Feeling the touch 
Of a lover’s hand 
Slip down your spine 
After the wait is over 
And the want is heavy

Seeing the sun
Sink low into 
A cotton candy 
Horizon over a shore

For the first time 
Etching the details 
Core memory into
Heart into soul
Creating code 
That demands to 
Be remembered 
A love that 
Until you reach it
You can’t fathom 

I recall my grandmother in her nursing home bed, diabetic, poor vision, watching tv. A commercial is on and I ask, what are you watching? She only manages to mumble, the eyelashes, the eyelashes. I ignore this, saddened, but move on. Cut to Simon Baker on screen. Eyelashes. It is for this reason, that once a year I feel called to watch The Mentalist. My grandmother had good taste, only the taste was for copaganda and casual dining.

If only my grandmother had been a vegan, or a leftist, maybe then I would reach for beet juice or bell hooks instead of A&W and NCIS. It’s too bad that summer to me tastes like Mountain Dew and Maura Isles. I wish I could tell you I support local businesses, but it’s Christmas Eve and I’m at the Red Lobster, three biscuits in my belly, four more on the way and one bag to-go.

I can’t tell you the definition of generational trauma but I sure can tell you about marrying alcoholics, holding onto every last jar, and falling asleep on the couch watching cops because you can’t climb up the stairs.

these hills are ancient 
beyond understanding 
witnessed creation 
of Saturn’s rings 
each 
ice cold
section 
slipping 
into 
place
the crush of the cosmos 
weighs upon its worn shoulders

and here I am
42
a flea on its back
worried about 
things 
that 
ain’t 
worth
it 

There’s a string of numbers stuck
in the notes app of my phone, archived
into nothingness that was once
somethingness, a reminder to be
remembered. It’s days like this
where the numbers—perhaps some
long standing strand of pi, or a combination
code to a locked box unstored
and ready for pilfering—
blur together from so many
nights of lost sleep, dreaming
of infinity and the nature of zero.

A concept people know,
but know not where from
something that can get along
in any sort of setting

The young woman goes on a first date
Nervous beyond belief
She scours her wardrobe for something, anything
That little black dress stares her in the face

A performer ready for a debut
In an orchestral pit that many won’t see
In the midst of excitement, still needs something to wear
and that black dress fits the bill exactly

The mourning lady dressing for a funeral
there’s nothing to be looked for
The dress code is clear, often unspoken,
she grabs that dress to absorb the tears

They say that constance brings us comfort
perhaps that’s why we see
many unique forms of the same plain garment
That little black dress worn by you and me

Once I tried to write a poem about loving
the way men love, with action
and not with words, like the time
I came home from school and found a vase
of roses dancing on my nightstand
and convinced myself every yellow petal
could cancel out the prick of dark blue
silence. But a poem will not sing
for half-truths and consolations.

Today, in the heartbeats between
steel clinking against steel, the handyman
said to me, without preamble, “I just found
out I’ve got a sister. Yeah. Three years
older than me. I had no idea.”

He looked me in the eye
for that last part, hands lifted
in a shrug, or perhaps an offer
or request, like he wanted to hand me
a ball of live wire,

not so I would untangle it for him,
but just that I might hold it
for a while, even knowing it could
shock and burn. And what

is poetry if not this? Being given
something true, and holding it,
hoping it might let you
hear it sing.

Of course I wouldn’t
lie to you, but, ad hoc, I’d 
say anything for
just one more of your kisses –
if it please the court.