Category: poetry
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corner pocket, 2018
corner pocket, corner pocket, corner pocket, i called it. this game of 9 ball started in mid-March, that was the break. the thunderbolt, sledge hammer that shattered the rack, dissolved the pact, sent numbers spinning. and i blinked, missing the moment where the 1 got away, a sly ghost-out into the side. but…
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we lasted through winter.
i was sideways, asleep, or thought i was, between them, worried what if i would never feel this way again. morning just starting to peak. wouldn’t make its way through those blinds for a good bit, no use for the future. just an indication seeping in through kitchen windows. catastrophic gold. in love, two times…
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Further South Than Dakota.
didn’t matter the mileage; i had set my footsteps so far into South Dakota that even the Badlands bled away. nothing but circumference in the shape of parched surroundings, you live in a disc now, Lucky. blue skies with one raging eye, reminding me that water was a thing of the past, and the shirt…
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the saddest song in the world.
distancing is an art that remains unmastered, she told me. sifted through the albums, generous face awash in a jukebox mood. no small surprise. hard to perfect something that simply happens. who in this world is the best at hurricaning? getting hit by a bus? …when she loses interest… then she paused between Dire Straits…
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just like that.
Fires had been erupting all across the city. Not spreading, just then, though soon. Not being set, they said on the radio that afternoon, just happening. Not just buildings. Stretches of main streets, asphalt suddenly a logjam of burning red fabric; a circle of flames brought to life at Generation Ballpark, just left of center…
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undressed.
this was a window created, made with an outside on either side. wasn’t enough to be left out in the cold, watching what was indoors, all the lovely enthusiasms that didn’t involve you, but a reflection of what it might be like if you were allowed in there, standing, smiling, a window with built-in reminders…
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maytwentyeighteen.
standing at gulf’s edge, watching emerald waves roll in with the latest news, spread themselves at my feet, sediment for sandpipers, sun with an afternoon glare that sends cat paw clouds towards the horizon, where storms ring warning bells; still too far for thunder, replaced by the hungry reminder of jet engines, twin fighters that…
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at the gates.
sat myself outside. red steps. back against a closed door. cigarette. Jack Daniel’s. music still bumping, catching a row of bikes parked against the fairground fence. and what was on my mind… 6:25, here’s how the air feels on a perfect day, taste of a willow tree. sun at a lower level, some 71 degrees.…
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caterwaul.
the caterpillars have come back, once again sporting such April fashion sense. first spring of Season 2. seemingly recent arrivals crawling along the catwalk with with all the determination of a a young upstart. single undulating inch draped with a fur coat of pale-yellow static. bright dandelion faces on a mission. depending on the angle,…
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ghost.
you know the ambivalent stride, path some three sidewalks wide. and while you found yourself fishing, waiting for what if, the rest of us were waylaid by we know, we’re reminded, we live with it now, and that clever little crease against your pillow face is going to stay, rupture, smiles on repeat, reemerging, until…
notes from a never-was. 