Buckeye Surgeon

poem

2026-10-18T20:31:26.397-04:00

My Body

My ribs are trusses

Preventing the collapse

Of my body

On top of my heart.

My liver is an innocent bystander

But never tells anyone

Everything I've done.

My bones are small and hard

Like little league bats.

My eyelashes are long and thin

Like the disarticulated legs

Of harmless spiders

My spleen plays hide and seek

With no one looking so it stays

Hidden forever, unearned,

Unless you happen to run into it

By mistake. Then it bleeds and bleeds.

My bladder is a bota de vino.

Tonight’s vintage literally

Tastes like piss.

My glands are actually lymph nodes.

Call them by their proper name!

Show some respect!

The weird mole on my back

Gives my immune system

Some really bad vibes.

My skin use to rash

When mom and dad

Were going through divorce.

My ribs arch a high-

Ceilinged shelter around

My lungs and my heart.

My pancreas describes

Its lived experience

As fast and moist.

If my adrenals

Were any larger

The world would need

New shadows

And a much larger cave.

The less said about my

Muscles, the better.

The more said about my mind

The more insufferable I’d be.

My dick is pure vexation.

There are versions

Of life as a eunuch

Both better and worse

Than the life of the erection.

The top half of my face

Betrays a certain impish charm

While the bottom half belies the extent

Of admittedly modest accomplishments.

My ribs are a shield

Protecting my heart

II.

The heart has four chambers:

Blood enters the first chamber

Exhausted and small and blue,

Huddling together like prisoners

In a frozen gulag at Reveille.

All it offers is a place to gather,

A place of brief rest.

Signs adorn the walls

Apologizing for the wait.

The second chamber of the heart

Receives its charges

With anxious proficiency

Lining everyone up

Like flight attendants

Just before an emergency landing,

Offering drinks and snacks

To maintain the illusion of a lost complacency.

The third chamber is just happy to be alive.

Every single cell that bursts through its door

Is welcomed as a conquering hero.

There’s couches and hammocks

And rows and rows of books

And an open bar that serves until dawn.

The fourth chamber of the heart quickly

Whips them back into shape

Because it’s time to get back to work.

Everything that follows depends on

How well they can follow simple instructions.

The heart will keep doing this until

You tell it to stop.

My ribs are a prison

Incarcerating my heart.

My heart is a bird

That fits through the bars

But stays as long as you like.

10/18/26

poem

2026-10-18T19:55:40.565-04:00

The Debt

The old surgeon is on call again

And no one can figure out why

He still does it after all these years.

He had a good career.

He paid his dues,

Worked hard, offered quality,

Was always respected.

Isn’t it time to coast a little as he gets

Closer to the finish line?

But he has a secret

Reason no one knows—

Statistically speaking, ER call

Represents the most efficient method

Of putting a surgeon in the position

Of potentially saving a life—

Mesenteric ischemic

Ischemic bowel

Perforated ulcer

Free air

Strangulated hernia.

He drives in. He saves the day.

Another notch in the belt

Holding up the world as he knows it.

Every year he gets skinnier and skinnier.

You should eat, his wife says

But he replies: the more I save

The faster I pay off debt that remains

From the lives of those I have lost.

Honey, I’m always in arrears

No matter how busy I get.

We’ll probably die as paupers.

Everything I’ve earned

Was always earmarked

To be remittance on a delinquency

That can never be paid back.

The best I can hope for now

Are those fleeting moments

Amidst the flurry of action

In the OR when I almost forget

How much is owed.

10/18/26

poem

2026-10-18T19:49:01.419-04:00

Presbyter

There once was a man who so loved the universe he refused to accept the truth of the last prophet as his savior unless it was guaranteed that everyone else would be saved. No matter what. Give me the hell and pain of eternal fire, he said, and for no one else instead. Not one soul deserves to suffer for even a tenth of eternity, no matter what, even the devil. Even the most cold-hearted killer. Even Stalin. Even Judas Iscariot. Everyone gets saved. No exceptions. Given an infinite series of random exchanges even the devil is statistically salvageable. Instead of a benediction he recites his favorite poems. Instead of certainty he offers hope. Instead of hope he offers his hand. Instead of martyrs we patiently listen to what everyone has to say. Instead of a catechism we practice good manners. Instead of god he asks you to love the world. Instead of presbyter he offers you a handful of dirt.

10/18/26

poem

2026-10-18T19:47:17.572-04:00

Bookmark

I knew a girl who used a thread

As a bookmark— a single black thread

Snugged against the inner spine.

How that was enough

To mark her spot

I’ll never know

But she never lost her place,

Always picked up right where

She left off.

From across the room

You couldn’t ever tell how far along

She was in her novels

Until one day she’d show up

With an entirely different book

And you never saw the other one again.

Which doesn't mean she read

Everything through to the end

Only that she was done

With that particular one.

If she ever stepped out for a while

I was afraid to check her progress

Lest I pull the thread from its place

Like a hair on her head

And all the pages loosened

And fell to the floor

Before she was done with it.

Sometimes I find her hairs

Entwined in my fingers after

A night of love together.

The first thing I do is check

The floor for scattered ribs

Then the pillow for her head.

And there she is, still sleeping

With the look on her face of a woman

Who knows exactly where she is.

10/18/26

poem

2026-10-18T19:35:35.547-04:00

Rituals of Love

Rituals of love—

Making the coffee,

Getting the flowers,

Remembering things

You’d otherwise forget.

You have to be water

Flowing downhill,

Finding the low places,

Filling the cisterns

Without ever knowing

What is meant by wetness.

That’s one theory—

Knowing what you are

By your effect on others.

You have to pay attention.

Look, she’s reaching for a towel.

Her eyes are closed.

Her body glistens.

Her raven hair drips.

10/18/26

poem

2026-09-28T20:57:33.395-04:00

Bloodwork

The doctor has ordered blood work. Vials and vials of tests. They take so much blood you feel dizzy. They give you a snack. When you call for the results she refers you to a specialist. He shakes his head in disgust and redirects you to the proper subspecialist. It takes 6 months to nail down an appointment. In the meantime your blood counts fluctuate. You laugh and cry and rage. The price of gas dominates the front pages. None of your friends ever had to give blood. Something seems amiss. On the day of your appointment you get lost in the parking lot. But there were never any spaces. The valet is rude and demands to see your papers. You never see your car again. Just inside the building you have to hand over everything you own. Your pens and poems and scraps of receipts. Your wallet. Your keys. The list of names to contact when you’ve passed. The password to an account containing $17. The matches from a restaurant in the valley. Your phone. Your memories. The waiting room is a large hall with a high arced ceiling made out of treated wood like a midwestern non-denominational church where the pastor plays the guitar. The chairs are all broken. The line for the check-in spirals around the room 3 times like a chambered nautilus. A man behind you is crying. He keeps saying I’ll never leave over and over like the words to a morning birdsong. None of us actually do, says the sparrow behind him. When it’s finally your turn at the window you find out your appointment has been cancelled. She tells you to go back to the end of the line. The look on your face halts the clouds. Her finger hovers over the button to summon security. But the doctor feels bad. He remembers what it was like. He ushers you into a special room where you wait and wait. Here, the walls are pure white and the ceiling looks like an upside down well. The only way out is to jump straight up as high as you can and hope you land in water.

9/28/26

poem

2026-09-28T20:56:31.995-04:00

Weather

No wonder I bury it.

When it surfaces

Everything breaks

Like porcelain figurines—

Delicate, but fierce beasts

Barely bridled on narrow muntins.

Shame passes through

Me like the militant winds

Mistling down from northern lakes

In a hail of steel arrows.

I’m never ready for it

No matter how often

It winces my defenses.

Just the other day,

Startled by a howling squall,

It bucked the bit

And dragged me

Where it wanted to anyway.

How quickly a small crack

In the frozen foundation zig-zags

To the opposite shore

And we all fall in.

It’s best to relax

As it moves through you,

Let it have its way with you

Like any regular weather.

Then when the sun

Pulls back the shades

And shines down on your life—

Look around for fresh sediment

That’s how you bury it

9/28/26

poem

2026-09-20T20:45:52.900-04:00

God Complex

My glutes are nobody’s business

I’m everything I purport to hate

Trees are not property. Nor the stone nor the

The rushing winds.

Look you’re a man now

And I haven’t finished

Telling you everything I know.

Only one tree is left

The others have been evicted

Absence pending appeal.

When you come back here

Someday you’ll find

I never stopped trying.

In a way we’re all biding our time

Waiting for the great technological breakthrough

That obviates the necessity of our own lives.

In my dream home the staircases

Are all spirals. Straight up, straight down

Curving round and round

Until I’m just where I started

Only higher or lower.

When the pilot light goes out

You can either call a professional

Or get down on your belly

In the haunted musty basement

And ignite it yourself.

The theme for Christmas this year

Is the O. Henry story

Where I suddenly become very lazy

In order to spend more time with you

While, unbeknownst to me, you

Take on a second job in order to afford

To take the certifying exam

That, if passed, will allow you

To come to the hospital and work

As my personal surgical assistant.

To salvage the holiday season,

I give up alcohol in order

To be on my best behavior

While you agree to laugh at all

My mean-spirited, unfunny jokes.

That woman will never be enough!

Says the woman who will never

Be entirely satisfied herself.

One teaspoon of total protein

Three pinches of the salt

That dries on the crook of your neck

After you’ve been working out.

On the down low I have been

Lifting some weights myself

Focusing on biceps and pecs

So I can overhear some kid say

Hey, he looks pretty good

For an old guy.

After hours of deep critical thinking

I have decided to save only the photographs

Of me taken in black and white.

If I start with geology

And then move on to higher maths

(While sprinkling in St Ambrose of Milan

With a spritz of Julian of Norwich)

I will have become the most interesting

Grandpa no one listens to, of all time.

I would have liked to have changed the world

For the good but

Nobody ever asked me that.

I would have said— just give me that chance!

Like a prodigal son whose

Father now suffers from dementia.

Then I could prove that failure

Is also a great redeemer.

Yessir, I take full responsibility

For everything that has happened

Lay your sins upon me

All is forgiven

9/20/26

poem

2026-09-20T20:36:46.949-04:00

The Gift

When it’s first received

We play with it

Like a toy

Then we want it to be just like

Everyone else’s toy.

So we dress it up

In costumes and wigs.

Paint on a new face.

Voila! We can all pretend

To have fun together!

Then comes a long period of

Growing very attached to it

No, we realize, it isn’t just like

Everyone else’s.

So we treasure it. Protect it.

Seal it in a laminated box.

Tend to its every shrieking need.

You have to. To save this world

You’ve come to think of as home.

But it isn’t fun anymore.

Then one day you see it

In a brand new light and fall in love

All over again, only this time you’ll

Do it right, not like the last time.

This time you see it doesn’t belong

To you. It’s everyone’s.

Your error is a common illusion.

Hearing this articulated out loud

Reduces you to ictal laughter

Which, if you’re lucky,

Goes on for quite a long while

Until you settle down and start

Paying closer attention

To everything that surrounds it.

Then, just before giving it back

You play with it

Like a toy

9/20/26

poem

2026-09-20T20:34:25.099-04:00

Versions

In one version of events

I sold what I could and gave

The rest away in exchange

For one single moment

Of absolute clarity.

Then I found a clearing

In the woods

Where I set up camp

And waited for it

To never come.

In the other version

I locked it all away

In a secret drawer

And swallowed the key.

Every night I’d tug

On the handle

To make sure it was safe.

In the fake version

I had lost my faith

And started to wear

A crown of qualms

That pressed new sulci

Deep in the folds of mind

In my version

I tiptoe around the edges

Of an infinite series

Of abyssal trenches

Without either falling

Into the dark fathoms

Nor rising to the surface

To breathe

9/20/26

poem

2026-09-17T21:38:58.352-04:00

Mr Handball

Dad was happiest down on the court

Surrounded by 4 concrete walls with me

Up in the balcony watching every shot.

I sat with mistresses in the bleachers

Next to half drunk men

Who had lost in the first round

He was the Ohio Open division

State champion

In 1979

The year before, the Canadian National runner-up.

He keeps his trophies in boxes

Which follow him wherever he goes

One match I pissed a yellow tracing down the back wall

and they had to call a time out to clean it up.

One tournament I fell in the locker room while he was showering

and woke up straightjacketed to a rigid backboard

while they stapled my bleeding scalp.

Then he had to move far away,

Too far to watch me when it was my turn to play.

Then the distance got so far

Neither of us knew where to look.

In the hell I imagine for him

He’s condemned to spend eternity

In a damp

poorly lit

YMCA

Picking up wet towels,

Mopping the sweat soaked hardwood floors.

In the heaven I envision

He’s up there in the balcony

Watching me dive for killshots

No one else would ever try to get.

Whenever I look up between points

He smiles

And pumps his

Fist

poem

2026-09-17T21:37:32.714-04:00

Holocene

Relax!

Touch some grass, they say.

So I lay down on my back

And watched a series of clouds

Slide past on an ocean of blue mantle

Like tectonic plates sliding to dooms

At the bottom of a distant trench.

Then I saw a white jet pass through

The solid core of the earth

And suddenly it was clear—

Everything here comes from the sun.

When I went back to work

It was no longer the holocene,

Not a trace of a hospital seen.

Strange plants and a burning in my chest

Confirmed my worst suspicions—

In the grand scheme of it all

Each life, at most,

Is a minor orogeny erased

Over the course of a single,

Uneventful,

Late summer afternoon.

9/17/26

poem

2026-09-17T21:32:29.874-04:00

Win Some, Lose Some

Every poem both fails and succeeds

That is the nature of the business;

These reckless attempts

To capture the flash of now

As a series of changeless things.

It would be a mistake

To consider it ossified,

Fossilized in sandstone

Someone stumbles upon

In a road cut while broken down

On the freeway to whatever happens

Just before you get to Enlightenment.

It moves as you move.

If you allow it, it will follow

You wherever you go

Like a dead religion haunting

Its living, breathing god

9/17/26

poem

2026-09-17T21:29:21.313-04:00

Moon Phases

The moon was a suture needle
That lost its thread
And all the constellations fell apart.
The moon was a sideways smile
Some asshole turned into an emoji
That means “I don’t give a fuck”.
The moon was a finger nail clipping
Yellowing behind the electric toothbrush.
The moon was a smudge
Of thumb dusted in chalk.
The moon was a pocked face
Pretending to sleep,
Too ashamed to show
The sad in his eyes.
The moon was my best attempt
At drawing a perfect circle.
The moon was a strange glyph
Signaling a sudden shift
In the perception of being.
The moon was the last lick
Of a flame you no longer
Have fuel to feed.
The moon was brand new,
A dark hole in the fabric
Of lightlessness.
The moon was eclipsed,
A forgotten toy
Rusting in the backyard.
The moon was a friend
I hadn’t called in years.
The kind of friend who
Always sounded happy
To hear from you.

9/17/26

poem

2026-09-17T21:27:45.429-04:00

Death Day

Like birthdays, everyone gets a deathday

Lucky is the man who senses its arrival

Usually by then he’s old enough

To have lost all interest in birthdays,

That old traditional occasion

By which we celebrate the living

With gatherings and balloons

And presents and cakes

And so he meets this new dawning

With unexpected excitement

Grateful to have been gifted

So much unearned life

That even the end could be celebrated

Knowing it is a celebration

He will only get to experience once.

But nobody ever celebrates a death day

When we’re gone, preferring the old

Familiarity with the day we were born

To mark the memory of their mourning.

Most survivors can’t even remember

The exact day their loved one died.

My mom visits the grave of her mother

Every year on her mother’s birthday.

What about the day she died, I ask

When was that? And what was it like?

Oh, I don’t know, she says. It was cold.

It must have been winter

I’m happy to start a new tradition

Where we celebrate the actual deathday

Not like we would a birthday, of course

With the humble good cheer, smiles and bonhomie

Nor does it have to be

So dreary and somber gray

Hours in the stacks of the university library

On a Saturday night preparing a 10 page paper

On the ceaseless nature of human suffering.

No, the target is somewhere in between.

Instead of ice cream and cake

We suck on fingers of ginger.

Instead of ribbons and bows

Everything is as beautiful

As it is.

Instead of gifts

An old empty wallet pressed

In the shape of his bony hips.

Instead of singing happy deathday

Someone tells the story of the rental

Car lost in the maze of Madrid

Set to the swing

Of a Bourbon St dirge.

Instead of blowing out the candles

We let the fires burn all night.

9/17/26

poem

2026-08-23T19:55:02.122-04:00

The Insomniac

I wrote a poem

After midnight

In the pitch darkness

But in the glow of dawn

I couldn’t see what it said

I’d have to wait for sundown

In the meantime, what to do?

Hours and and hours left

Of unrelenting light

Go to school. Learn a trade

Work a job for 55 years

Occupy your mind

Read the classics

Curse god

Seek out others

Get entangled

I got so busy

It makes you so tired

Now I sleep through the night

8/23/26

poem

2026-08-22T20:32:43.389-04:00

Meet Cute

What are you, some sort of literary type? She’s looking at my black T shirt emblazoned in white on the front with: Unreliable Narrator. I don't know about that, I said. I just like weird T-shirts that only a few people might get. And then what, she asked. What’s after that? So you’re a little honey pot for some sentient hag who has a Lolita fetish. Then what? Not Lolita, I said. Nabokov. I don’t even like him, you see? I want to fall in love with someone whose favorite authors are all mysteries to me. What are you, some kind of desperate writer or something? she asked. Yes, I said. I’m desperate as fuck. It’s been buried so long. It burbles up unpredictably like, oh I don’t know, like molten iron. What do you write? Well, I’m sort of a poetry guy. You mean you’re a poet? Poetry guy. Just a guy hovering on the perimeter of the big poetry party, talking to no one. Ah, she said. One of those. The guy who spikes the punch. Pulls the fire alarm. Flips on the light switch when everyone else is making out. Then tells everyone on Monday how much fun he had at the grand poetry party. Oh, you weren’t there? I don’t think that characterization’s quite fair, I said. But she kept shaking her head. I know guys like you, she said. Fun at first but it always fizzles out. They think they have to create something new every single time. It ruins it. You can't believe anything they say. Which is something I wish I had said, first. Then she gave me her number and told me to forget it. When I called, no one answered. Which was a shame because I had finally decided to tell someone the truth.

8/22/26

poem

2026-08-22T20:31:58.044-04:00

The Catcher in the Rye

I’m in a group of people
Milling around in the middle
Of a field of rye.

Behind us is an open pit

With fresh dirt piled at its sides

There're rumors of a mass execution

Planned for later

That’s when we notice

All the barbed wire

Crowning our surrounding fence

Sentries in towers train

Blinding white lights

Down on our little stage

None of us knows why

We’re here. Whispers of past

Convictions filter through the crowd

Like airborne viruses.

Someone begins to cough

We break into cliques.

Over there are the hard men

With special bones

But undeveloped livers.

They take their shirts off

And begin to chant

Sequences of monastic slogans.

A small group near the edge

Of the grave is tightly huddled

Around a small child.

They take turns telling stories

As means of distraction.

Closest to the guns is a column

Of folks who think they know

Their executioners by name

As if that will change anything.

I’m in a similar predicament

As a couple other people here—

Stragglers who’ve staked out a little parcel

Of hard-earned ground,

Where we’ve decided

To make our final stand.

It never really made sense

As a life strategy

At least until now

When things don't exactly

Clarify, but somehow seem

Slightly less difficult to understand.

Stupid humans, we think every flash

Of light in the middle of the pitch black

Means another chance

To get things right.

So we rush to the front of the line
And try to catch every bullet we can

8/22/26

poem

2026-08-22T19:52:42.219-04:00

Likeness II

But I just can’t get used to him

The way he looks at me with

Pity in his eyes

Like I'm a mess

But I’m not embarrassed.

Sometimes when I’m out

In the world I’ll catch

A glimpse of him

In a dark window

Or a looking glass

Above the tavern sink

And pretend I don’t see him

Even though our eyes

Have obviously met.

8/22/26

poem

2026-08-22T19:47:21.412-04:00

An Old Notebook

I found an old notebook

Long abandoned

Filled with scribblings

Suggesting nascency tinged

With a hint of sinister profligacy.

Reading it is like following

A trail of breadcrumbs

Meandering through dark woods.

Sometimes it leads back home

But there’s no one there

Anymore. Sometimes it ends

At an old witch’s cabin

In a pine clearing.

It’s still made of candy

With a peanut brittle roof

Shining in the moonlight

But I lost my sweet tooth

Before the rest of them

Ever had a chance to grow in.

It now seems improbable

Those crumb trails were ever real

Abandoned to the ravenous

Wilderness for so long

So now my pockets

Are always filled with stones.

8/22/26

poem

2026-08-16T21:17:23.353-04:00

Primogeniture

My dad was never around

So my son has to see me

Every single day

My dad was indifferent

To my success or failure

So long as he was the hero

Of however the story turned out.

I just want to be my son’s

Powerless wizard warning

Him to pay attention

To all the hidden trapdoors

I’d ever fallen through.

Once a self-proclaimed white knight

My dad is now like any other castled king

Alone on his throne, back to the wall

Anxiously waiting for the coup

He knows is coming right there

In the middle of his Great Hall.

I’ve never been interested in kingdoms—

I only want my boy

To be better than me

But he’s mad right now, though,

Says he likes the feeling of falling

As I reach to catch him anyway.

My only spell is an overcompensation

That takes years to slough

From the next generation.

8/16/26

poem

2026-08-16T21:08:58.560-04:00

Likeness

He used to be used to me

But every time I see him

Now the look on his face

Betrays a cryptic reckoning.

It stares back at me

In shocked horror

As if I were some rough beast

Emerging from the glassy pond

I try to hold his gaze

Hoping he will see me

As I’ve always been

And slowly start to soften

Back into the over-confident boy

Who thought he saw a man

8/16/26

poem

2026-08-16T16:41:42.467-04:00

Hydrangea

After the summer rain

The world softens

To a gauzy pink cotton

Of groggy saturation.

Water drips from eaves

Metronomically preserving

An illusion of duration

While time enjoys

Its brief leave of absence.

A lone bat flutters away

Like an epileptic X

Against the pastel sky

In strange repeatable patterns.

I had only meant

To take out the trash.

No one prepared me for this.

A leaf of the white hydrangea

Collapses under the weight

Of its aliquot of summer precipitation

And then springs back up.

8/16/26

poem

2026-08-16T16:37:47.893-04:00

Endless Song

This is my favorite song

Once it found the right rhythm

It seemed it would never end

Odd melodies looping

Unceasingly without sounding stale

No matter how many times I hear them

Your bare shoulders are piano sonatas

Outside under sturgeon summer moons

Your laughter’s a bridge to drastic themes

I’d otherwise never bother to see

While your eyes are shiny blue bars

Tapped at the small end of the xylophone

Our song must also be sung

So we keep coming up

With unexpected new lyrics.

We take turns.

Every day together

Is the gamete of another

Verse that fits the prosody.

We sing them in any order

And in between it’s always fun

To belt out the old chorus

We know by heart, the one

We first fell in love to.

That’s the one I’ll be humming

Softly in your ear

Toward the end of the night

When we’re the last ones left

And the lights come on

And the band goes home

Softly in your ear

Last remnants of a music

We'll no longer be able to dance to.

8/16/26

poem

2026-08-16T16:34:12.260-04:00

Helium's Comet

The day you turned two you let go

Of your giant helium birthday balloon

Just because you liked

To watch it dart and flutter.

But it had a mind of its own,

Flittering just beyond your grasp

And then up, slaloming gnarled

Limbs of the old oak tree

At the house where you first lived,

Then breaking free into the deep blue

And higher and higher

As if scampering home

To live amongst wispy white clouds.

You stretched your little fingers

As high as you could

And you cried and cried

And all I could do

Was crouch to hold you

And whisper of the wispy clouds

As we watched it vanish

In the haze of vastness

That dissolves even the stars

15 years flashes by like Tucson lightning

Briefly fracturing the hooded

Monsoon-season evening sky.

Something changes when it happens

That no one has ever defined

And all that’s left is the faint whiff

Of ozone burning

And the rapidly fading residue

Of all the intricate patterns

We’ve forever left behind

I’m in clinic again, an old patient

I haven’t seen in years

Regaling me with tales

Of counterfeit coupons and broken faucets

When I suddenly see it drifting by in the window

Over the old woman’s shoulder—

A golden #2 balloon!

Similar to the one we lost so long ago

When you were my baby girl

And I was a lot less gray.

All I wanted to do was call you,

To tell you I saw it, so many years

Since we had both stopped looking.

There it was, appearing like a comet

Making its incalculable cosmic rounds,

Still, after all this time

Just beyond my reach

Well, that’s the way it goes, honey.

I’m afraid we’ll never catch it.

Some things you only get to hold once

And then they're gone.

Maybe not now, but someday

When thunder clears its throat from distance

You’ll search the skies

And see it for yourself

8/16/26