Try not to think of it


Bent shoulders squeeze tight against the

seven-layer’d Sheol, curtained against

a world, upturned, and studiously

oblivious to a two-breasted sparrow,

with shark-teeth and winter’d schemes.


Words, like rainless clouds hopscotch over

solemnities, trinkets, experiments, names.

They jostle for supremacy with other shelved

things, like those good ideas, old friendships,

and Dad’s breakfast table dreams – the talk

of little boys of unwhisker’d pedigree.


Watch a man’s skin curl under

flame while doing your nails, and then shrug

away the smell before answering

your phone. It could mean playground

talk, pajama time, and networking to

stop the voices.


Still, hiding there under the clock,

breathless and stoic, that pushes only red and

black and the carbon of sweaty

palms, are the patient lines on an ambivalent

face. Come the creaks and queries and

counting petals on the tired

sidewalk. But garden variety promises, wrapped

in gum wrappers are stuck in pigeon shit, refusing

release into the Cadillac morning on a

farm truck day. So, flow down trucker

tears, leathered and unbidden,

like remembrances of the somnolent road.

Those kind of tears.


Image: Circe by Wright Baker

6 thoughts on “Try not to think of it

      1. Well, it feels like there’s been a shift in your output, like the words are doing what you need them to. I’m not hearing the cranking of gears in your poetry any more. That’s not to say they haven’t cranked long and hard in the background, but the ride up front is smooth. Maybe that’s what people mean when they talk about “finding your voice”.

        Looks like all the practice you’ve done has paid off. I wish I had the same stickability when it comes to working the craft. I love that you keep experimenting, too – that’s inspiring 🙂

      2. Seymour, when I can write a book review as succinct, interesting and insightful as you, I’ll be a happy man. Until then, I’ll keep farting around with poetry and bloggy type stuff!

      3. That sounds like the kind of farting we’ll do in paradise, in our glorified bodies that will probably be denied the dubious capacity for the other kind of farting 😉

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