poem: can’t touch this
As the artist set up his loops layering beats onto vocals creating his own backup being his own best friend and his own whipping boy — this young boy fresh faced and sheepishly grinning too young to call an artist with a straight face despite the truth of it — as I...
a poem: blue face red face
There are days when I can't shake it, that suspicion that all the world wants is to take things away. Days when only poetry keeps me in balance. Days when even the full, yellow sunshine of our star isn't enough, when the light disappears and I'm pulled too far into...
the one where I stop not having a blog
[above: Me, back in the day, flying from my dad to my uncle. That feeling of falling is almost as satisfying as writing, without the anxiety of the "post" button at the end. Although I don't have to wear diapers now... so I've got that going for me.] Back in the day,...
a poem: some state of wanting
No one writes love poems anymore. I mean, tonight I'm texting you emoticons while I drive frantically from one job to another. I'm not chewing thoughtfully on a quill, my inkstained fingers scratching out, rewriting, perfecting couplets by lamplight. Although life...
a poem: Pompeii, revisited
I never traveled far afield like Jennifer did that one time in college so theres no real frame of reference for the news. Pompeii collapsed this morning nothing but dust now. No, really, it means it this time, no teasing remnant of life no ghostly petrifications just...
a poem: strange brew
As Halloween passed and fall fell You left me again for some far city maybe emerald or steel or some other heady, glinting promise energy lofting skyward the dreams of man progress and potential. You left and I unpacked my lamentations to keep me company. Here in my...
a poem: the drive over the dam
He was a man now, no escaping that. We both were grown, in spite of ourselves and we knew better, knowing ourselves and knew worse, too. We knew of worse. Which is the why of the affair: why the late nights early mornings desperate fumblings and driving sleepily...
a poem: Compass
Compass In the third week, little signs started marking my heart's place on the map. Lines drawn between them, meandering like your hand along my spine when you bent to kiss my shoulderblade. Kissing Cape Town, then Egypt, this exotic and foreign visitor entering into...
a poem: On love, in Mississippi
On love, in Mississippi I'm always in love driving to Mississippi the sun like a blanket or your hand I love the alternatives the sun and your hand juxtaposed making me choose the Tennessee river stretched out below me a mirror while I thought of you and it sparkled...