Wednesday, May 15, 2019

Working Title: Movement

Life is motion. The ocean breaks the shore.

Every door opens and closes more loudly with age.

The burden of living breaks a man.

Each decision aids precision and navigates the river rocks.

The water flows.
Now is the time.

Ever present is His presence.


Wednesday, April 24, 2019

Breakfast

Green tea peels back
last night's drunken damage,
and the day breaks on 30th
Avenue. Every footstep passing

the sidewalk table eats
a bit of each person that clicks
and clomps toward work.
The day is already done.

Dreams of the reverse path home
fill their heads like water, or
green tea. The leaves sink
to the bottom of this paper coffin.

Dead tired, the writer tosses the cup
and joins the cattle lowing toward work.


Tuesday, April 9, 2019

Geology and Genealogy

He spent years under Oklahoma stones. Even after washed and dried, his shirt held their incense.

When building chimneys, the odor of wet mortar settled into his beard.

Portland dust fertilized his boots with city-germinating aromaskyscrapers and sidewalks come from this dust and will return to it.

After a rain, the New York City pavement composed him, yesterday, in his son's memory.

Stone or concrete perfumes him into existence, out of thin air, for his descendants. Anywhere.

Text messaged photo from my dad.



Thursday, April 4, 2019

R.I.P. Coach Hampton

In physical education class, you made me run suicides against the oldest and largest boy while the whole class watched. I was the youngest and smallest and couldn't beat him. He'd win by a hair and you'd make us run again. You were rooting for me, but I didn't know that then. The largest boy was running for his dignity. How could I beat that out of him?

That's my most vivid memory of you and your teaching. Wait.

I also saw you on the pitchers mound of our middle school gym floor. You'd throw the kickball maddeningly and bouncily to the athletically gifted to keep the playing field even. And you'd snatch linedrives out of the air as if you had a gloved hand catching a baseball. My older brother said you used to dive, too, before your heart surgery.

Now I see you eternally diving home. How is your eternal home?


Saturday, March 30, 2019

Portal

The soul's window remains
the same from birth to death.
Life parades outside. Jester
and orator are equally framed.
Those born blind see the same.

The eye is a symbol of a window.

A witness knows when one
gives up the ghost, whether
or not the shades are closed.


Friday, March 29, 2019

Earthbound

This incensed hyacinth
purpling aflame in spring
will anger into summer ash.


Sunday, March 24, 2019

Incomplete Idea #3

Your eyes are the same size as when you were born. Who knew the soul's window needs to remain the same from birth to death?


Sunday, February 24, 2019

On Berryman

I've recently been obsessing over John Berryman's work. I've been rereading The Dream Songs, and I also purchased Homage to Mistress Bradstreet and Short Poems. Both purchases were discontinued library books. Short Poems was a first edition and only checked out once. Bradstreet was never checked out.

I know that I'm a rare weirdo because I still read and write poetry outside academia, but really? One of America's greatest poets of the 20th century has a book that was checked out once in 50 years, and another book that was never read, until I bought it.

Also, both were academic libraries.

T. S. Eliot said, "The very existence of libraries affords the best evidence that we may yet have hope for the future." Sorry, man, the future doesn't have hope for your art form.

God bless the soul who acquired this library stamp.




Thursday, January 17, 2019

Incomplete Idea #2

If language can compose
a home, each word
is a brick, and this stanza
begins the foyer of this poem.


Wednesday, January 10, 2018

Incomplete Idea

We’re taken aback by a cat’s greeting another with a backside sniff, the same for dogs, and scold a child for seeing the world, mouthful by mouthful. But it’d make less sense if a soul assessed the world without its senses.


Tuesday, December 22, 2015

They and Their Song Shape and Sleep Manhattan

During the revolution, iron
chains ate fighter
ship hulls beneath
my rippling reflection.
British and American
blood gurgled the cold dark.

The Hudson's nervy
waves erode Manhattan,

but curving around
the cloisters, slowly
cutting stone, the white-
capped water continuously salutes
West Point soldiers. Now,

if you're sitting still, you'll
hear kind calm lullabies
roiling through sea
air. Violent deaths cannot
muffle the songs of valiant men,
even under watery graves.


Monday, December 7, 2015

100,000 Pageviews

I just saw that I now have over 100,000 page views.*

I feel like this:
Kyle, Holly, and Nicolas

*Who cares if ninety percent of the views are likely my own naval gazing.