maybe it is important
to remember
difficult days,
even or especially
when all we want is to
forget.
Category Archives: Poetry
the planet is getting hot and ya that might be “bad” for many species including humans if we are to say “extinction” and “bad” are synonymous but to the planet a desert is no more bad or good than a glacier and this is what you call luck
the ink i pressed
repeatedly over
and over repeatedly
into my skin,
three bears shot to death and plastic cans cannot possibly contain all that we desire and then tire of
there’s only so much
time to get it
down, to get it
done, to do it.
i’m elated. i am terrified. i hope for what i see, when i get there
it’s hard for me
to sit cross-legged.
Harbor Mountain Road in mid-July comes up through the floorboards
visit https://feedlitmag.com/ to see this poem. Issue 2.27
i’m told i should edit so i look across the channel at the broken hillside//the vacancy of trees//the motionless machines
heart, i have lent
you to grief
for long enough.
i keep forgetting i have frozen organic fruit in my small freezer until i shove it aside to cram in more ice cream
most times people
can’t tell when you talk
to them from hell.
speaking of failure is to a degree a failure so instead we speak of flowers that bloom independent of our meager measures
she is physically beautiful
to me, so i want
to talk to her.
i was three days sober in a Minnesota campground and an unseen nocturnally barking dog drove me into a field and left me there alone
a woman in Alaska,
her face framed
by short cut thick
black hair, sits framed
in the window of a truck.
blades on Eddie Bauer//~//competition i devour
i’ve been being
cool.
the difference between a fjord and a bay is the way the tongue folds itself into the cleft between shadow and light
this version of
peace
is so foreign
to me.
someone in Japan “followed” my social media page and i think Japanese people are smarter than Americans and i know that isn’t true and know i think a lot of things that aren’t true, or; curb your enthusiasm season 7 episode 6
it is evening and Summer
is still Summer.
i would like a discount on a credit card reader and as this want has gone unheeded, i decide to deride those who have found capitalistic success
morning,
made shy by
window coverings.
i watched a 13 year old girl of less than 100 pounds kick the face clean off another, terrified, i have been scrabbling like a duck ever since
thank you
for your wishes
of kindness.
seams split, fabric fades and comes back vividly
walk through a parking
lot, mountains in
the distance ahead
of me, mountains
under unfathomable gallons
of ocean behind me.
it looks very inviting
a man, walking by
with coffee in his warm hands,
stops into the small shop
i am in, saying,
“the window looks
more open and bright,
it looks very inviting”.
i worked in a wine shop with an Italian man who would say with a shrug, “for me, it is good”
make it
more
palatable.
the girl i don’t know at all is here and she is my nemesis and wouldn’t you know it but she has that golden down snap neck coat just like i’ve always coveted
i think i’m manic
again, i think i think
i think i think
too much
and i think i’m
manic again.
most of my friends don’t have time to talk so instead i talk to dreams
people in positions
of traditional leadership
rarely lead in
any meaningful way.
my friend Rick in Washington who i have never met and do not know at all was supposed to send me an email confirming the reality of a 10 pound box of tart red cherries, dried.
we have
very specific preferences in how
we communicate;
give me eyes, give me
pupils.
people walk by on the dock, looking into my windows. mostly, when we see each other, they quickly avert their swimming pool’d eyes
i do not know
how this plumbing
works, in a floating
home made of plastic.
odd electronic music from Japan, black coffee from Guatemala, beguiling human body from a confused planet
even dread
has its excitement.
the theme of the week is “hot” and the theme of the month is “pride” and the theme of the day is “neither cold nor shameful, but mild and fatigued”
in the parking lot
with the 12 portly black rubber
dumpsters, a man
pulls up in his beaten gray
gas wheezing vehicle.
emptying a tube of silicone onto the toe rail of a sailboat in an effort to stop a chronic leak ahead of an impending rain storm
every day is a nice day
mostly i write so i can titularly quote Denis Johnson, and mostly i wake to ocean so as to know how to breathe
i know a man, know that he
exists, though know little else
of him
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