Buckeye Surgeon

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 clearly 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

poem

2026-07-31T18:05:47.471-04:00

Recurring Nightmare

Some people have recurring nightmares

Where they can’t stop falling

Others are haunted by dreams

Of spiders or swarms of bee stings.

Mine is me crawling on all fours

Deep into a cave cut into the side

Of a craggy old mountain.

There is a steady downward slant

And the passage gets narrower and narrower.

I’m wearing a lighted helmet that shows me

Exactly where I’m going but I keep going

Anyway. The walls are a spiral stairway

Zeroing in on one-dimensionality

While the ceiling and floor slowly succumb

To a long denied mutual physical attraction.

It gets harder and harder to move.

I can't turn around.

It ends with a sharp decline

I slide down until I’m caught

In the cold embrace of stone

Carved to accept every angle

And curve of my now trapped body.

In the dream I’m smiling, lips flush

Against their perfectly arched space.

It’s only during waking life,

Seeing how happy I seemed,

That it starts to feel so terrifying.

7/31/26

poem

2026-07-31T17:59:14.779-04:00

Gossip

When it’s all over

It’s either a total silence

That swallows time

Or you hear muffled voices

On the other side

Of a closed door

And no matter how hard

You press your ear

Against the cold steel

You can’t make out a word.

Hell is knowing

They’re probably

Talking about you

Heaven is understanding

Language is a wave

Washing over edges

Of massive continents

Of silent meaning.

Eventually there’s nothing left

But a gray wet sand

Extending sideways in both directions

As far the universe is long.

To the left are footprints

Emerging from the sea.

To the right is nothing

But smooth sand

Patiently waiting

To be disturbed.

7/31/26

poem

2026-07-26T22:50:20.347-04:00

Joe Black

In the movie Meet Joe Black

Death, as played by Brad Pitt,

Falls in love with the daughter

Of the older man he came to fetch.

It isn’t as ridiculous as it seems.

Life is always pretending to be

Someone new every single day.

My clinic, in fact, was full of the living

And there were a few moments—

Old Mrs. Liebling’s comfort dog

Putting his paw on my knee

While I rubbed his scruff—

When life became me.

7/26/26

poem

2026-07-26T22:47:52.112-04:00

Button

There’s a button for everything.

Push it and something happens.

Sometimes it’s good, sometimes not.

If you like it, you keep pushing it.

You can push it too much, though.

One day nothing happens.

Someone says, check the batteries

But that’s the first thing you did.

They were fine,

But you changed them anyway.

You just want to change the channel,

Put something else on,

Turn up the volume.

You get to a point where

All you want is to be able

To turn it on and off.

Off

Push the button

7/26/26

poem

2026-07-26T22:33:41.614-04:00

On Call

Squirrels dart skittishly

Across the back lawn

Like surgical interns

My grass is a cancer

Stealing vertical spaces.

It keeps growing and growing

Wasps and yellow jackets swoop

Like suture needles sewing

Quilts of marigolds

The rain is excisional debridement

Washing away the dusty remains

Of another wasted afternoon.

The children on the swing set

Are also patients.

Soon I’ll have to make rounds.

The woman sitting in the kitchen

Had an appointment an hour ago.

She waits patiently.

7/26/26

poem

2026-07-21T07:35:57.374-04:00

Typical Tuesday

It happens so fast. And then it’s over. Change is the constant. Every room on rounds is a different patient. Tell me why you ended up here. My husband brought me. I called 911. My sister said enough is enough. I put all the details in my note. Yes, it’s not fair. Suffering is rarely earned. I think I can help. Here’s your options. This is what I think. Even if you pay attention, or want to, it's too much to keep track of. I see everything in each shifting moment. If I try to remember it, I lose it. Stay with me. Don’t leave. But I have to. Someone else needs me. The OR is calling. Patient on the table. The third hernia. The second gallbladder. When I get home you ask about my day. I say it was fine. It was the usual. Nothing special. Typical Tuesday. You nod your head and the kitchen ticks with the existence of appliances. You start to make dinner. I go through the mail. The absence of details is a chasm we are falling into. I’m not doing it on purpose. It almost feels like weightlessness. I wish you had been there, taking notes. I wish you were there to see. But there’s so much that happens. How do you expect me to remember all that? For most of it, I was barely there. It frisked me like a subway thief and hopefully got what it needed. What are we here for but to give it all away? I have more than I deserve. Meanwhile I’m already out the door, on my way to the next. So I go home and write. The only difference between the floor and the ceiling is the weak force of gravity. Whatever I get down saves fragments of my own life. Weeks later, it’s like reading a stranger’s journal. If someone else reads it, well, maybe it happened. If it’s you then I know it’s real.

7/21/26

poem

2026-07-20T21:55:22.993-04:00

Fallen Angels

There is a sect of believers

Who accept the divine mercy

Of God but only on the condition

They never get sent to heaven

As the ultimate reward when they die.

So off to hell they go.

Like everyone else, the heat catches

Them by surprise and, yes, there is wailing

And, yes, there is the gnashing of teeth

But not for as long as you might think.

Soon their space is filled with silence

As they learn to bear their torments

With a quiet endurance right there

In the darkest, most sulphurous

Corner of hell.

Soon, they begin to be noticed

By the rest of the damned

Inspiring fleeting literacies

Of hope and possibility

Which Satan sniffs out and extinguishes

Quicker than love unrequited.

But first words are never forgotten

And the sounds they make when spoken

Become the skeletons of catechismal hymns

And the alphabet invented to capture them

Is also used to construct a sacred

Book of scripture and prayers.

By now everyone in hell can read

But it doesn’t really matter

Because they already know this

Low church liturgy by heart.

They bow their heads and inch

Closer to the dark holiness inexplicably

Carved from orchestral dins of despair.

None of them can really see beyond

The blinding white singe of their own pain

Let alone the black void

Standing in the way of absolute truth

But they know in their hearts

That someone is verily there.

In the other world, these martyrs

Cloaked in darkness kindling

Nascent forms of faith

Amongst the suffering masses

Would be known as saints.

But here it is much more—

Even God Himself is starting to believe.

7/20/26

poem

2026-07-20T21:19:10.013-04:00

Vespers

I throw stones at stained glass

Windows just to let the colors out

I mix up the words to prayers

Just to have a reason to swear

I sanctify every moment

By forgetting it ever happened

In the early morning darkness

The insects sound like psalms

Matins is just me and the dogs

Pissing in the dark wet grass

Vespers is clouds and thunder

On the night of the blood red moon

7/20/26

poem

2026-07-20T21:17:22.352-04:00

Coffins

Every morning I lie down in a hole

In the ground in the shape of someone

Else's body, not comfortably, for it’s

Far too small but it gives me a renewed

Appreciation for all the other spaces

Where I seem to belong.

(Not like there’s many of those)

There’s no claustrophobia in the womb.

Fetuses are allowed to presume

The universe will always adjust

To the shape of their own bodies

Which is why newborns, arms and legs

Flailing, always appear to be falling.

One of the weaknesses of freedom

Is the absence of walls and ceilings

Defining the limits of existences

Which explains the persistent

Popularity of coffins

Even amongst the living.

7/20/26

poem

2026-07-20T21:15:55.212-04:00

Quantum Love

In quantum love

We end up together

Even though we never

See each other again

It all depends on luck—

Some stranger catching us

In the corner of his eye

From the other side of the room

Once we’re observed

We’ll be forced to choose

One way or the other.

But no one is ever looking.

In quantum love

We live together, happily,

Only miles and miles and miles

Apart.

It’s either an inside

Joke only we can share

Or I’m laughing

All by myself

7/20/26

poem

2026-06-28T20:17:38.772-04:00

Land of Jeff

Welcome to the Land of Jeff. Everyone here is Jeff. Once a mining boom town, founded back in the early seventies. When the silver went bust we tapped into a thin vein of unsustainable hope. But this used to be such an exciting place. It seemed like anything could happen. No two Jeffs were the same. Some you couldn’t stand to be in the same room with for too long but most of them were pretty cool in slightly different ways. Hospital Jeff was always at the hospital. There's Jeff in the backyard staring through the bonfire reciting soliloquies from Hamlet. Basketball Jeff alone on the driveway court, 1v0, once again making the last shot at the buzzer to win the game. Music Jeff and cries in movies Jeff. Jeff with the clever retorts. Painfully shy Jeff. Afraid to talk to girls Jeff. Proud of himself Jeff. Jeff who hates himself. Jeff with the long ugly mullet. Jeff trying to impress his dad. Salutatorian Jeff. Careless reckless Jeff. Jeff who defaults on his loans. AOA Jeff. Broke Jeff. Almost dropped out of med school Jeff. The Jeff who works so hard to make enough money he’ll never be broke again. Socialist Jeff. Talks to himself Jeff. Insecure Jeff. Scoundrel Jeff. Terrified Jeff. The Jeff who buries longings under mounds of false irony. Earnest Jeff, gentle Jeff. The Jeff who can be a little bit of a dickhead. Jeff in a constant state of baffled wonder. Jeff who forgets your birthday. Disciplined Jeff. Reliable Jeff. Good boy Jeff. The Jeff who always seems to let you down. Jeff in love. Broken hearted Jeff. Clinical Jeff who will coldly cut you off like a gangrenous limb. Penny-pincher Jeff. Generous Jeff. Everyone here once had a friend named Jeff who quickly wore out his welcome. Some of us crossed paths with Jeffs who kind of grew on you after a while. You got the feeling that if you looked hard enough, paid attention, and really did your best, you would eventually find a limitless supply of all the Jeffs you would ever need. He was everyone you had ever known. It was a good time back then. So happy to be here, before we even knew what happiness was. We thought we’d spend the rest of our lives together. But now we’ve fallen on hard times. Haven’t had a visitor in years. One by one all the Jeffs seemed to just leave or disappear. Our population plateaued years ago and now is in steep decline. Every morning another row of houses, entirely abandoned. Moved on to the land of Liam or Lincoln or Jack. All our schools are now thrift stores. Some days the only other Jeff I see is the one in the mirror. Well, as long as you’re here, enjoy it while you can! Some day soon you won’t even be able to find it on a map. I’m only telling you this because I love this place. I’m not embarrassed anymore. We had a good run. Never did I think anyone would ever want to stay here for long. And truth be told, everyone else is gone. I’m the last one left. I’m the only Jeff.

6/28/26

poem

2026-06-27T08:56:33.652-04:00

City Limits

Welcome to Anywhere, USA. Population almost infinite. We’re an All-American town where everyone is welcome as long as you abide by a list of ordinances written down, lost, forgotten, and then forged back into existence long ago. On the other side of this line lies a world of indistinct possibility for any wanderer willing to try. If you have been kidnapped and brought here against your will, please be patient, someone will be with you soon. Enjoy the complimentary pistachios and pineapple juices while you wait. We are not responsible for property misplaced or forcibly taken. Nor do we have the resources to prevent an unholy concentration of wealth in the hands of a nihilistic upper crust. Our rivers are numbered but not named. We don’t pay attention to mountains. Every bridge here is a different color. We don’t preserve old barns for the local historical society to turn into boring museums gathering dust. We just let everything fall down (when it must). Nevertheless, every day is a ribbon cutting ceremony celebrating the opening of another portal to the other side of consciousness. Anyone is free to use them but it’s a one way trip. No one comes back. At least as far as you know. The first thing you ought to do is pay a visit to our lovely visitor’s center where they slash you with a scythe and, when the wound heals, you get a lifetime pass to the community pool. Only the diving board is off limits. Down this road is where you find expensive, brightly lit mansions displaying giant portraits of its inhabitants that you can see from the road while driving slowly by at night. Down the other way is a dead end, but only after several thousand miles. The road I’m currently on can only be accessed by foot. Seven lanes of pedestrians in both directions. Most of us here are just 9-5 working stiffs and the commute is all part of the suffering. We’re just like you. Only a little bit different. Rush hour is terrible in most ways except for one— you meet some interesting people just standing there for an hour in lane 6 on the Old Cinderblock Trail. We all work at the Respite Home for the Hideously Deformed. My current charge has a scar on his face shaped like a memory you only half forget but still feel. All day long he rubs his fingers along its keloided edges while staring out the window. He never talks. I’m not allowed to know his name. At lunch hour the employees all gather behind the one way glass to watch the residents chew. The human digestive tract is essentially just a long absorptive tube with openings at the beginning and end. Pretty basic physiology. Didn’t take a genius to come up with that. Nematodes, the nickname of our high school team, had it down at least 600 million years before us. Outside of work, we’re like any other municipality; grocery stores and gas stations. More cobblers than you’d expect, fewer steak houses. But all in all a pretty standard American layout. I pretty much get along with everyone here. But don’t ask me what it was like before I arrived. You’re not allowed to talk about it. Whatever happens here is immediately forgotten. Don’t take my word for it— it’s in the disclaimer written in tiny print at the bottom of the contract nobody ever signs but will. Once you cross our town’s threshold nothing will ever seem the same. Every smell will have a specific sound. Your orgasms will completely interiorize, become spasms of mental ecstasy without any outwardly physical manifestations. Love is an acceptable form of currency (plus the 3% surcharge). The children all live in a giant cage like the aviary at the zoo, the \ seniors occupying the top branches of the tree with the 1st graders down below feeding on their droppings. This is a family town. Old stock. Traditional in every sense. We would never use a euphemism when we mean to take the Lord’s name in vain. We believe in all the punishments— corporal, capital and ethereal. Eternal damnation is a joke. Like telling your best friend you fucked his mother. Every September 4th we all gather round the old gazebo on the grassy commons and listen to a series of unsettling speeches delivered by community elders dressed in white tunics. This is our High Mass. They use the old language none of us were ever taught. But we’re not here for understanding. We bow our heads and receive our penances in the form of cigarette burns on the back of our necks. Then silence spreads across the lawn like an afternoon eclipse. We close our eyes and contemplate the martyrdom of our patron saint, Adam of Eden—fallen angel, exiled from paradise, someday to return again. There never was a snake.

6/27/26

poem

2026-06-21T21:35:57.006-04:00

Hydrophobic

Given our crystalline compositions

It’s a wonder everyone doesn’t dissolve

Surrounded by all this water

Fragile lattices of salts and minerals

Weakly linked by electrostatic

Forces that falter when wet.

Danger lurks in every

Pond, lake and ocean

Even puddles are a threat

Each of us a cube of sugar

Teetering on the edge

Of a cup of hot tea

Which is why they always say

Don’t drink the water

If you don't know what’s in it—

So many invisible impurities

Hiding in its clarity.

I suppose we owe our wholeness to skin

Which wrinkles and folds

And tries not to let anything in.

I keep throwing myself

in the sea

I keep dragging myself

to shore

6/21/26

poem

2026-06-21T21:24:39.136-04:00

Father's Day

One day when I am gone

You may choose to rifle through

These poems I’ve written

As a way to learn something

I may have kept hidden

Or find clues to puzzles

I left unsolved while still living.

This is the only one you will need.

Think of it as a skeleton key

That unlocks our secret black box,

Written before either of you

Were awake on a Father’s Day

Of no great acclaim.

As usual I was up inexplicably early,

Had paid some bills, texted my own dad

A happy day and readied for rounds

At the hospital. The grass needed

Cut and I had a toothache

I would continue to put off for weeks.

The years were going by so fast.

I was starting to look old in pictures.

What else is there to remember?

The potholes in Turks and Caicos?

The vicious biting spiders of Idaho?

The Spanish rental car fiasco?

Soon it will be your turn to add

To the catalogue of stories

Some kid will want to hear

Over and over and over.

Until then I’ll keep writing until I can’t,

Each word a quiet cord

Of firewood stacked in the shed

For you to use in the winter

Someday when it’s very cold

And no one feels like talking.

6/21/26

poem

2026-06-21T21:20:17.571-04:00

Normalcy, OH

Well, well, well— whaddya know,

Here I am, friendly suburban man,

Fairly normal after all.

Middle aged with a mortgage,

A wife and kids, a good job

I don’t hate

And a little money set aside

For special occasions.

Who would have thought it?

Yes, there are a few skeletons in the closet.

Yes, I am a jackass.

Yes, I deserve much less.

But here I am, indistinguishable

From any other moron wandering

Aisles of hardware stores

Looking for a certain size of nail.

I almost blend right in—

Lizard king alien wrapped in human skin.

I didn’t think I could actually pull it off.

Had envisioned something much different—

One of those guys who misses everything

Everyone else usually takes for granted.

A series of passive observances

Of milestone celebrations featuring people

No longer really part of my life.

Not that I would make it awkward,

Standing there stupidly in the cold,

Gawking from the other side of the window.

No, I’d bring the charm, for the most part,

Like a clever heckler in the front row

Of a pro basketball game whose banter,

Despite its initial subversive appeal,

Loses its allure by the end of the night.

Yes, what you see right here

Was always in doubt.

A sad and lonesome future,

I’m sorry to say, filled the alternative itinerary —

First, a period of uneasy disillusionment

Followed by short bursts of recklessness

That led to a series of family

Estrangements and broken friendships

Mistakenly recorded as wins

I imagined scales falling from my eyes

Restoring an original version of vision

Where everything appears filthy and rotten

Even love began to reek of the spoil

And it seemed fair to just not give a damn

About anything at all which opened up on a long stretch

Of sullen self-exile where

Small universes of resentment

Cropped up to fill the empty spaces

Once crowded with the entanglements of other people.

After that, your options are fairly limited.

Best case scenario you sublimate

This anger and frustration into

Disciplined endurances of pointless

Exertion and aimless confabulation.

More likely, live out the rest

Of your days as a bitter contrarian—

Forget what’s funny

Say something rude at Dad’s funeral

Catch god in another

Obvious contradiction

Prove the buddha wrong

By asserting the necessity

Of your own existence

Commit to working out

Commit to a healthier diet

Commit to a good night’s sleep

Alas, none of it helps

Kill the time better than

A period of honest self-reflection

Which ushers in the final movement—

A series of abandoned novels!

Thousands of failed poems!

A whole moral philosophy that collapses

Upon the slightest brush

With any human intimacy.

The whispers begin

To get louder and louder

And then we say them together—

So much talent and untapped potential!

Should have been a doctor!
Got married! A father!

Wasted his life!

Tragic suicide!

Took the easy way out!

I hate to admit but part of me

Misses that poor man

I just dodged becoming.

He was so me—

A richly deserved destiny

Hovering on the edges of distinct possibility.

After all, this world is small and mean,

Everyone dressed up, rictal grins,

Oblivious of catastrophes

To come, enjoying themselves

A little too much at Thursday

Night garden parties

With a bunch of dolts they don’t even like.

Think of top hats and parasols. Do you have one?

I have an extra behind the trellis.

Let me tell you a secret

About a dream I’ve been having

Nearly every day of my life

It's a dream within another dream

Which functions as subtext

To the larger, more encompassing dream

Which, for some reason, includes you,

Right now, in tonight’s version.

In this dream, I’m not a total sell out,

Haven't turned my back entirely

On the self-flagellating loner

I thought I was born to play.

Though I seem to be a conventional

American mediocrity, a worker bee

Hauling his meager gatherings

Back to the hive to share,

I conceal the truth under

Thin veneers of respectability—

I’m a weirdo like everyone else

A hermit who can’t bear to be alone

Damned, but for love

6/21/26