the changing of the seasons

In Late November, sunlight budges the clouds “NO CUTTING” hisses Autumn– the Politeness Police, apparently, protecting Clouds which were jaywalking to begin with Throwing looks (WHAT?) to the sky. All of them P.I.N.S, practically. “WALK, don’t run,” November says coldly. Meantime the leaves pause (Was the scolding intended for them? Is the interpretation optional?) They […]

the fort

The fort in the corner of the field was the safest place I constructed my whole life this far.  I was nine when I built it.  It blocked some of the wind, but not entirely.  The southeast corner of it held a shelf made out of a pine board that I had perched onto the […]

check engine light romance

Gray mascara on the sky over Monroe Avenue, the artery of this town. When I pull up to the drive-thru at McDonalds I switch Tom Waits for 98PXY. A lot of advertisements happen. It’s Huuuuge. Hey, Anthony, I text, Meet me at the train Past Scio. Sigh-oh. I whisper. I look like a mark in […]

letter to a woman who makes her way

Athough I guide you to the nearest blackberry bush,
While you are sustained, the sunlight is hid from us
By these high conifers; the words
We say have no echo.
I’m not even the diner waitress I used to be: “How can I help you?”
Said like, “You know where that coffee pot is, you refill it.”
You say to me, blackberries don’t grow near pines. We starve then.

The Rosebud Diner

The Rosebud Diner, circa 1994 Jessie was a waitress who would flirt with your ugly grandpa and make you refill the coffees. She’d say, “You know where it is!”in a dolly-with-cancer teeny voice. She caught the flat top of Lucky Sevens with a quarter during the lull between lunch and dinner, racking up just enough […]

relationship advice

The burnished tan ten speed coasted with a tick tick tick tick tick tick tick down the double hill of country road near Nesbitt’s Pond, and almost directly across Pine Hill.  I got to the road after a languid flat gray road leading to it, one which demanded a rest stop or die of dullness—so […]

beyond the beyond

“sad” is made of the thought beyond the one beyond the door of what is felt “melancholy” is the extra crimson parasite vine on a September poplar, it quietly sways in the wind, squeezing the tree into dead.  the calm, roundeyed worldview seems owlish and is not easy—example: there is a silver bowl with a […]