She drew cartoons with wry captions.
She built sculptures from stuff
she rescued from dumpsters. She painted
the trees that were my childhood
safety net. She populated her world
with brightly colored flowers.
Sometime along this timeline, she stopped
believing. Stopped thinking what
she did mattered to the world.
Stopped living.
I’ve stopped dating.
I’d rather watch trees.
The wind arrives.
The branches lean.
This tree has cured me.
Look at her.
Rooted.
Completely herself.
Yesterday the wind came through
and she lost three leaves.
I didn’t wonder
what it meant.
I have stopped calling longing
a spiritual practice.
The tree is still dancing.
And so am I.
I made tea.
I opened the window.
Nothing was missing.
blink 182 sings let’s make this last forever
but my beer’s half gone in this neighborhood bar
where the veggie burger is fine
and the fries are better
i’ve closed out my tab already
but my beer’s half gone in this neighborhood bar
an acquaintance sits one table away
but we don’t talk because it’s a general acquaintance
i had so many options this morning
and they all led me to this dive
where the veggie burger is fine
i should’ve opted for dinner with friends
last week we all went to a sports bar
after praying the students would graduate quietly
i ate one of the few real burgers i’ll eat all year
and the fries were better
blink 182 sings let’s make this last forever
i’ve closed out my tab already
an acquaintance sits one table away
i should’ve opted for dinner with friends
“and so castles made of sand, melt into the sea, eventually”
—Jimi Hendrix
You are a sand castle
on the edge of the Atlantic,
“your wilderness,”
you told me.
This ocean has watched you
grow into a man
who loves to fish,
fill his pockets with shells,
hold up a shark tooth
like buried treasure,
bring his own boys
to learn the contours
of the beach.
Each day is a wave.
Every hour
the tide rises.
First, your hair—
you pulled gray beard
out with a pinch
and showed me.
Then the pounds
vanished beneath work clothes,
taking your blue-collar bulk.
The tide keeps coming.
Then muscle,
the moat around the castle,
began to wash away.
The Atlantic still remembers you
casting your line into dawn,
bent over the surf,
watching footprints blur
with each pass
looking for what it took
and left behind.
the evening, the sun
saying farewell
sharp
as a knife’s edge swims
in darkness,
the moon
a comfort
she could
sink her body
around Terror
thrashes
hard and soft
lulled by the
forever
crawl, the wet certainty of
sleep, a damp heap.
~ An erasure of page 12 in Sarah Freeman’s novel Tides
Summer always started with
humidity rolling off the blacktop
in invisible waves we splashed through
to get to the yellow school bus.
Counted checked and loaded
the lanky teen turned on his transistor
and we became the band on the run
towards day camp.
Gathered in whispered awe
around the counselor,
That tinny crackling radio taught
us little yard apes more than John
Jacob and his fellow camp songs
ever did. We learned to rock the boat.
We figured that Billy shouldn’t
have had to be a hero. We heard
the cries of the night Chicago died,
and Rikki didn’t lose the number.
Hot dogs, potato sack races,
swimming, and other camp
activities were endured, an enforced
hiatus between the musical bus ride.
In retrospect, I always learned more
from artists than organized activities.
You see that a person is considered righteous by what they do and not by faith alone.
If someone on the street has the courage to beg you for money,
you should have the courage to give it to them.
To Raymond Rivoal and George K. Mullins
Eighty-two years since the orphan
became the unit’s mascot.
Eighty-one since the soldier saw the boy
rise to the occasion.
Two old men in plain sight
for the flag-waving youth.
One stands by the other’s wheelchair,
bent in reunion.
Tears and stories stream.
My boy, says the elder
My friend, cries the younger
Keep the line moving,
begs the voice
overlooking the joy
unfolding, humans
connecting
genuine grief and gushing
guilt over friendly-bombs
and flattened
family units.
Eighty-two years
and now
three generations
rushing hugs
while the timekeeper misses out.
A sign on the door
of the mom-and-pop sandwich shop:
“Thank you for 31 years of business!
This location is now closed.”
The facade crumbles
for months afterwards.
There now sits a
luxury apartment complex.
A sign on the door:
For Rent.
It is never taken down.
