Patreon and a new poem

Hello!

I know, I know. It’s been quite a bit of time since you’ve heard from me. I can see by my analytics that some people still wander into this website from time to time, which is really great!

I’m posting to let you all know that I’ve started a Patreon. For now, donating to this Patreon will get you access to one of my new poems each month. Additionally I have plans to grow offerings to include short stories and other things. Of course, everything on here will remain up and free, and you may even have a writing challenge to look forward to in the nearish future.

I haven’t been idle during my inactivity. I’ve been doing a lot of writing, and I’m excited to share it with people in new ways.  Also, a new poem is available in Weasel Press’ Ordinary Madness Vol 2. So go give that a look!

Quiet Morning Moments

In quiet morning moments

On weekends

Right after breakfast

I sit back and remember

Moments of isolated nostalgia

 

Like

 

The perfect summer morning

In childhood

When my friend Alex and I

Woke up before my parents

To jump on the trampoline

Still coated in dew

 

Or

 

The dreamy way the setting sun

Lit my ex-girlfriend’s apartment

Seven stories high

A north facing window

The sky a mix of pink, purple, and so many blues

White walls, black shelves

 

Of course,

 

In rapid succession,

The bedrooms of all

My childhood friends

So many idle hours lost

But not wasted

 

Like these;

Incomplete, but whole.

My city

City of potholes

City of chuck holes

People call you dirty but

They’ve never seen you in summer when the plants cover everything

Grow out of sidewalks and old parking lots

Old factory rust made beautiful in the setting sun

Rusting out a line south west and far east

Into Pennsylvania

City of relic rubber and porcelain and paper

City of grit

Some imagined, most earned

Downtown lights made of

Parking decks, streetlights, and that massive church

Brighter than stars

Smokestacks make aurora borealis

South side, torn down, made flat

Soon to be something new

City of blimps

City of me

My home

My city

Trampoline

A Nepali man and woman

Struggle against the wind

(Rain soon)

He smiles and counts springs

She tries to untangle the safety mat

Colorful clothes

Dance in the cold front

Waiting for excited children

(Just home from school)

Who didn’t expect to see

A trampoline

In February

False Spring

I have known many False Springs

Hemingway told me about them first

But after that I knew I’d known

That deceit of warm weather

And bird calls

Which make the heart want

To wake up to open windows

To lilac

To sunlight

But we forget the False

And when the Winter returns

having not truly left

It hurts

But there’s nobody to blame

But us.

Torrents

It was a hard summer rain

The kind that comes from nowhere

A torrent

That reminds you

Terrifyingly

Just how hard it can come down.

 

Devoid of thunder

Just the crash of

Trillions of thick drops

We can barely see the fence across the street

From the porch where we stand

Barefoot.

 

I have my reservations about this.

 

You’ve set your phone up

On a chair so

we can have a video memory

That maybe you’ll cut up

Put music behind,

And put online.

Rain is getting on the carpet.

 

You run out first.

Into the street

Shouting free in a way I’ve never known.

The neighbor lady

watches with distrust

As I walk out too

Not into the street.

 

Glass.

Nails.

Screws.

Tetanus.

 

But I do dip my foot in

Cold, rushing, dirty water

Runs through my toes and you keep

yelping and laughing.

 

Then we sit on the porch

Your hair sticking to your shoulders

And my glasses fogging up

As the storm stops

And cars get stuck in the flood waters

By the old factories

Across the street.

Love Letters

It’s always hot in here

Even with the windows open

I can’t turn the heat off

The pipes bang and I can’t sleep

Not that they make much difference.

 

It was cooler in summer

You remember

When the mattress was on the floor and

You (probably) ate Twizzlers alone (probably not) in the living room

While I slept at home

Or more like

Experienced unconsciousness

Too tired to sleep

 

So much here you don’t know about.

I’ll tell you.

 

A cat meows at me every morning

Through the neighbor’s door.

They make breakfast every Sunday

I can smell it when I leave.

 

The streetlight

Across the way

Shines right in the bedroom window.

It’s kind of nice

On quiet nights

You can hear it buzz

softly

Over the ceiling fan when its on low.

 

The brick in the courtyard,

The one I told you I was worried about,

Hasn’t fallen but

They have replaced

(most of)

The light bulbs out there

Soon they’ll begin planting new flowers.

Probably.

 

Sometimes a squirrel

Sits in the dining room window,

The one the branches reach,

And watches me eat my cereal.

Remember how much trouble they gave me at my old place?

Throwing acorns at my screen door and

Running across the balcony at night.

 

It feels funny,

Not ha-ha,

To be so blatant

Like you’d read this anyway

Or that I’d really care

If anyone else figured out this poem

(more like a train of thought with line breaks)

Was to you.

So what if it is?

We used to talk all the time.

Now it’s just this.

Dark Space Low

We met winter 2009

but We knew of Each Other

long before

I let the years out

and after that

We became acquainted during

new sleepless nights

when You would whisper

my greatest fears and doubts

into my ready willing heart

 

Nobody knew You really

least of all i who

You knew best

and hated most

because i let you be

 

eventually You burnt away

all my dead wood and

i believed i was stronger for it

but there was nothing to defend from

You were already here

 

and when i

with the help of Many Others

realized you could

not be killed but

could be locked away

made quiet

I managed to

 

 

for a time

I forgot you were lost

 

 

and after years of you

raving through the now empty

barren

corridors I locked you in

You found a way back out and

I didn’t expect you there

on the fourth of july

when We laid in bed and

listened to illegal fire works

and You

shouting now

told Me

solutions to problems I

didn’t know I had yet

insisting of course that

Your way was the only one

 

 

then six days later

You were stronger than ever

strength born out of validation

but

so was I

strength born out of necessity

and fear

 

 

so we dragged Each Other slow

You cast me into that Dark Space Low

where You and I always talk

and I pushed you

with all my fury and regret

into a New Space

of Self reflection and

backward Certainty

Ode to the Man Who Tried to Dance and Did

He sat in the front row and

watched the Big Band play.

Probably early forties.

Steel gray hair, looked like it went too early.

Thick rimmed black glasses.

Tan and

something about his eyes made me think

he would be a good Scientologist.

He was always eating

even though he never left to get food.

 

He sat in the front row and

clapped with his hands above his head.

I watched him.

He distracted me.

Made me miss entrances.

I saw his face light up and

then he stood,

right in front of everyone

in the space between the audience and us.

 

He stood in the front and

started to dance but

not along to the music.

It was an awkward swaying thing.

Too fast to seem totally natural.

And he spun too,

in little circles where he stood.

Eventually he started to dance around, and

sometimes shrugged at people and

sometimes tried to get them to dance too.

There is something beautiful about the way someone looks

when they know they’re about to turn down someone asking them to dance.

You can see the kind of person they really are.

 

Eventually he sat back down.

In the front row and

started eating again, somehow.

And, when the next song started,

he was up again.

Swaying alone.

Happy.

Auto Correct

Auto correct.

fills in the names of people I’ve.

only thought of due to misspellings.

Pulled from my contacts and the past.

To remind me of younger years.

When having a phone number.

Meant more than.

Being a coworker or.

Someone you met once.

It was a promise.

Of future friendships.

Not annoyance.

When my fingers.

Use the wrong letters and.

I almost insert the past.

Into current conversation.

Without even meaning to.