I carry my coffee down the green slope,
plop into a blue swing hung from an oak
(that’s survived a century!), and I scope
out the deep sinkhole. A cat creeps by, pokes
his pink nose in. Does this young country bloke
see what I see? A hole wider this spring.
Tragic what constant heavy rains still bring.
I swing high, look away, to what remains—
think how to protect, safeguard what’s now left—
think about all our struggles to stay sane.

(For a wonderful example of this dizain form,
see Bill Brymer’s on June 4th!)

On Sunday morning,
she sent him a picture
of her clavicle.
Hoping to seduce him
with delicate bones,
dips of hollow spaces,
and the promise of a pulse.

he tells no one
his plans
at the hotel 
by the interstate
where he works 
the front desk 

his mother drives him
to the airport
her vape
on a chain 
around her neck
half-asleep

he checks three
sunglasses
cough drops
lip balm
and deep stacks
of money

his plane lifts over
keeneland
calumet
he watches bluegrass
fall away below

he hopes to hold
play deep
better than last year
watch for
dealer error
weak players

cards are important
luck, essential
he flies over
the desert
practices breathing
and thinking of her:

the little possum under
the rose bush
in the parking lot
this morning
eating a pizza slice
soft and feral and scared

I once was asked 
with such a knowing look 
If i felt like i fit in 
truth be told, I believe we both knew 
That I was the torn page in such a pristine book 

My eyes glanced around the room 
glimpses of man 
contained
I glance back 
forcing myself to engage
in our current conversation 

“well it’s obvious that
I’m not like them”
I mumble with a nervous smile. 
‘That’s true,
you have style,
a flare about you.”
I respond with a genuine smile 

I go home and think about that interaction for a while 
I don’t think I want to fit in 
I think i’m okay with being the only bird separated on the wire
I think I’m okay with being an outlier.

You are the bell I ring at dawn,

the soft chime that calls light through the curtains.

Steam curls upward,

a whispered prayer rising from ceramic,

your hands delivering warmth

as if you brewed the morning itself.

You are the book I crack open with trembling fingers—

a spine worn by affection,

margins scribbled with longing.

Each page holds a secret you’ve underlined,

a line that finds its echo

in the hollows of my chest.

You are a chapter I dare not finish,

not because I fear the end—

but because the sentences breathe,

and I am still being written.

I have fallen into you

like dusk spills into city streets—

slow, golden, inevitable.

Not a tumble but a yielding,

a quiet surrender

to the gravity of your presence.

You are a dialect I never studied,

but still I speak you—

in glances,

in breath caught at the base of my throat.

You are fluency without translation,

a song remembered

before ever being sung.

You are not a man—

you are a museum of sacred things.

Stone and light and silence—

vaulted ceilings of thought,

columns carved from conviction,

paintings of every version of you

I’ve loved from afar.

Art is your skin.

Literature, your breath.

Growth is your shadow,

stretching toward something divine.

Every word we share is foreplay—

not of the body,

but of the soul unclothing itself.

Dinner with you

would not be a meal,

but a ritual—

passing meaning across the table,

wine as confession,

bread as memory,

laughter as grace.

Read to me like you mean it—

as if the stories were spells

and your voice was the incantation

that makes them real.

Tell me your dreams—

not the polished ones,

but the raw, unfinished blueprints

you sketch in the dark.

I will see their scaffolding

and climb them with you.

Let me be buried, not in earth,

but in your ordinary—

your coffee spoons and Monday gardening,

your missed calls and soft apologies,

in your quiet

when you forget to perform.

You are the only cup

from which I would drink

every morning

The food arrived
far later than I had hoped.
The driver’s eyes,
lacking warmth,
brushed past mine
as if I were a burden.
No smile.
No “thank you.”
No farewell.
Just silence
and departure.

Still,
I’ll tip at least 20%.

The waitress forgot my drink.
Twice.
Frustration steamed from her skin.
Each step, obligation.
Not welcome.
Cold fries,
no silverware,
and a gaze that said,
“You’re the problem.”

And yet,
I’ll still tip at least 20%.

A sour tone.
A wrong order.
A weary face that never met mine.

Still–20%

Not for flawless service.
Not because I felt seen.

Here’s the reason:
I’ve lived behind that mask.
Carrying a stack of pizzas in one hand
and dragging my “interesting”  life in the other.
I’ve smiled through storms,
while drowning inside.

I’ve been given grace
when bitterness covered my hands.
I’ve been warmed
while offering cold.
Lifted, while feeling down.

The world spins,
not by precision,
by compassion.
Not by perfection,
by mercy.
It’s not performance
that sustains us,
it’s kindness
that makes no demand to be earned.

So if my 20%
can speak louder than judgment,
may it whisper this:

Love still shows up
when it doesn’t have to.
Kindness still counts
even when it’s inconvenient.
And grace
is the only tip
I can’t afford not to leave.

Imagine our collapse, the calamitous end, the shape of our rubble
the fault in our structure, the how did this happen? the sure signs of trouble.
Is it a weakening side that causes lean-to collision
or a central erosion bringing V-shaped submission?

I ask ’cause you were the one carrying doom on your tongue
folding the stories before first beams were strung.
You’re too nice, I’ll only going to ruin you.
The good man, archvillain to self, what is he to do?

So don’t blame me for pushing on the pillars–
this exhaustive decline that makes men into killers,
hoping to believe in any other reason
for foundational flaws than I’m a great person.

There are ways to get naked without intimate flair.
Bad timing? Need to heal? Secret side thing? I don’t much care
because I see a quiet desperation that should quake us to the core
when even the gentle men don’t want to be kind anymore.

                “And I tell you that you are Peter, and on this rock
                I will build my church, and the gates of Hades
                will not overcome it.”
                                                        — Matthew 16:18

The rippling water is green abalone at the pier;
wild geese float without effort and fish break
the waves—as if it were not solid, as if it was
insubstantial, as if the Son of God did not walk
on its surface like the land.

I sit here, cross-legged and broken.  I think of you, Simon
Peter—the first to be called, the first to be given
the mystery of Christ, yet you sank
                                                                 and I, too,
                                                                                    am sinking. 
                                                                                                          I think of who you were
before that day when He came:  Simon, He has heard.  History holds
that you, James, and John, were all bold.  Simon, also meaning flat-nosed,
like a fighter, like a warrior, like the one carried by a storm
in your soul.
                        
                        Gifted with a voice that boomed, you led
with your heart—and with a tongue that surely matched.
First to proclaim the Messiah; first to deny him at the cross.
First to pray down promised Spirit.  First to raise a sword
at his betrayal.

                             When he named you Rock (or pebble, or gemstone),
He showed us His Grace.  He revealed the rock on which He’d build
the church—and it wasn’t you, it was never you.  It was
                                                                                                      that Faith
with which you heard His name.  What a high! but then the low
when your words gained you rebuke:  You do not have in mind
the concerns of God, but merely human.  I can imagine the pain
you felt, your first love comparing you to the enemy. 

                                                                                                 Or when your brother,
once Saul (a name singing dignity), now Paul (meaning humility), called you
out breaking unity—called your actions the actions of a hypocrite.

Prized fighter, warrior, fisherman; well-intentioned, passionate—
yet fallen—man.  You knew your Lord yet you fought Him
washing your feet; but when taught, asked for more:
Head and hands.

                                Nothing halfway.  Nothing in part.  You’d be

the bridge between Gentile and Jew.  And when they came
to put you to death, you bid them more—you bid them
do it upside down.                              

                                 Nothing halfway.  Nothing in part.

Ye of such determination; ye of so little faith.

Would you walk this green abalone
with me now, you Gemstone,
you Rock?

Would you drift with the geese?
Or would you bid me fly
in fear, in my doubt
from the wind?

We are speaking.
                                           We are action.
We are wanting
                                   to be seen by Love. 

We are both
                        broken
                                      and seeking
a true
            name.