So, I’m no good at online dating / That is to say I do this to myself / After a couple days of messaging, a woman asks me to write her a poem / I see this as a good thing / We have a 97% match according to the algorithm / And she says she likes the beetles / And I say I don’t like typos / I tell her I will write her a poem / And I won’t give that poem to you because it was for her / I will tell you, it began with dung beetles / I waxed poetic about how they carry **** around for three things: / love / food / and a home. / Of course I don’t know that dung beetles experience romantic love / Or I don't know that / But I do know they stare at the stars / They are the only other animal on this planet we’ve found that does that / I wonder if they — too — get lost in fireflies / There is a place in Tennessee I haven’t been to yet / but my brother lives close by / and the fireflies there, they synchronize their lights while mating / I compare this to the planets lining up / How people assign such power and luck to small dots in the sky / How people assign luck to the dots on a lady bug’s back / How people assign luck to lady bugs / How lady bugs got their name and are perceived as a religious symbol / So are dung beetles / I’m sorry — they preferred the term scarabs / They used to push the sun across the sky / We used to give such power to such small things / And all they are doing is searching for is: / love / food / and a home. / The poem I send her is filled with Beatles references, too / Because I wanted her to know I actually knew what she was saying / Because all we need is love / Because all I really want to do is hold her hand / Because I'd just seen a face I can't forget / She doesn’t like the joke / Or the poem / Or me / Or I assume / because she never messages back / I still hope she finds those three things / Love / Food / and Home.
Jan 3, 2020
Jan 3, 2020 at 2:49 AM UTC
My grandma’s favorite holiday was groundhog day.
I don’t know if she just loved the fanfare of it all;
If she thought it was so trivial and fun;
If Pansawtukee Phil was just too adorable;
Or maybe she was just a fan of Bill Murray?
(Which I mean—who isn’t?)
My grandma always had a knack for everything, not just the weird holidays:
It was continuing to remind me that penguins have knees,
And instilling at least one of her grandchildren with a love of the X-Files that never faded,
(Me again)
And people watching
from the car outside of Byerley’s —
Insisting it was going to be her novel
“Tales from the Parking Lot.”
She also used to tell us that my grandfather had been reincarnated as a cardinal.
And she would tell us,
In the springtime,
He, (or the cardinal,)
Would come visit.
And, my grandma adored talking.
She would tell anyone her life story
Whether they wanted to hear it,
Or not.
This included:
nurses,
doctors,
a man named David at the Jewelry store,
some of my friends when we were just driving through on a road trip from college and stopped to say, “hello,”
Really, anyone who would listen.
She called it her gift of gab.
And, she was also really into scrapbooking
and creating slideshows of pictures
Simple ways of preserving the memories of loved ones
I don’t quite remember when her memory started slipping
When Alzheimer’s started digging it’s claws into
The facts, the stories...
Even the reality she knew and loved.
I’m sure, looking back, it was slow at first.
Like those first moments when Bill Murray wakes to the song “I Got You Babe,”
Again.
Not quite sure what is happening,
But confused.
The fear doesn’t begin until later,
As the events repeat again and again.
I remember my mother telling me of a moment
Where my grandmother was reliving her
Junior prom.
She lived with us then, and my mom had a baby monitor set up in her mother-in-law suite.
My mom woke to a crash through the baby monitor.
And when she rushed downstairs,
She found my grandma’s robes were laid out all around the room.
My grandma was on the ground,
The TV on top of her.
Her explanation of what happened is she was trying to steal the TV to buy a prettier dress.
In her lucid moments,
We told my grandma this story.
And she laughed
and laughed,
With the same confidence Bill Murray
has later in the film
Having accepted reality,
having accepted this fate.
Reliving days past
Knowing that a future
may never come.
It might be that the reason
She loved groundhog’s day was
The promise that spring is coming,
And with it, the cardinals,
And with it, new life.
Dec 17, 2019
Dec 17, 2019 at 1:44 PM UTC
...
10. I see you across the bar.
I remember that quote about how 10 seconds of insane bravery is all it takes
To make miracles happen.
9. I realize that I've got the quote wrong
And that even insane courage would still leave me
With the wrong words.
8. I take a sip of my Morgan Coke
hoping it can give me the courage to say, "Hello."
It's vanilla notes make me wonder
What your hair smells like.
7. I realize that wondering what your hair smells like is a really strange thing to wonder about a stranger.
6. I think back to the courage sentiment.
My friend finishes telling a joke.
There is laughter.
5.
4.
3. I take another sip of my drink.
The courage hasn't set in yet.
Every love letter I've ever read comes rolling back through my mind.
I begin to wish I was F. Scott Fitzgerald.
I mean - have you seen the way he wrote to Zelda. That's how I want to talk with you.
A romance that roars like 20's.
A romance as obsessive as staring from the dock at a light across the water.
A romance filled with speakeasy passwords to each other's most intimate thoughts.
Our whispers will not be sweet nothings, but sweet somethings.
And when we decide to sing,
Well, I won't have the words to describe that either.
2. I am sitting at the bar.
My friends are still laughing.
I wonder what your laughter sounds like,
And the courage hasn't set in yet.
1.
0.
Feb 15, 2017
Feb 15, 2017 at 11:53 PM UTC
In 1963, Ohio State pointed an ear towards the heavens.
They figured if someone had something to say, at least we’d be listening.
I’ll still talk of the stars in your eyes to anyone who happens to ask,
and I’ll speak fondly of your smile and your charm.
My friends don’t ask me anymore.
I’m told to forget, to give up, to not care,
And my poetry falls on deaf ears.
Fourteen years later, we heard our first note.
And for just a minute, it played louder than space,
And it traveled at hydrogen’s tune.
For 24 years we tried just to hear it again;
but our alien song was no more.
Lately, I’ve taking to talking to stars,
hoping that maybe they’ll listen.
I know I don’t broadcast a hydrogen note,
but I’ve heard soundwaves travel forever.
Maybe, someone’s got really good ears,
and maybe they’re listening hard
Because I’d love to sing them a song of the girl,
the girl with the universe eyes.
Feb 4, 2016
Feb 4, 2016 at 1:15 AM UTC
Most species of rattlesnakes control
just how much venom
they release into their prey.
The hemotoxin destroys tissue,
clots blood and sometimes
causes a severe paralysis.
A necrosis:
a caused premature death
in its victims.
Now, as far as monsters go.
The rattlesnake is one that scares me
less than the ones I've seen of late.
The rattlesnake offers its victims a chance to run.
Before the venom is released.
Before the deadly bite.
Before the pain
and the paralysis.
There is a rattle.
Tss - tss - tss
A warning for the victim
tss - tss - tss
to run.
The monsters I've seen of late,
they have a rattle, too.
But it serves a different purpose.
tss - tss - tss
It serves to reel, meant
to draw their victim in.
tss - tss - tss
A drum beat.
A dance, a club.
Bodies meet.
tss - tss - tss
A forked tongue, and a flash.
The venom consumed:
uncontrolled.
And still
tss - tss - tss
The rattle goes on.
The victim sees no danger.
Rather comfort in a monster's smile.
The deadly bite,
it happens next.
And the necrosis,
the premature death,
begins to take hold.
A darkness consumes the conscious.
A paralysis takes to the body and mind.
The victim no longer has control.
No longer herself.
Fear, now is only of the monster --
no longer that of
snakes and clowns.
And nightmares make what memory exists replay.
tss - tss - tss
The darkness consumes again and finally.
And the rattle continues.
Sep 2, 2015
Sep 2, 2015 at 1:37 AM UTC
I sit at the country bar
Meeting with old friends;
They like to dance
with random women.
The guitar player
begins to play
a set
of songs;
they are all the songs
we used to sing to
in your car.
I take a sip of my beer.
Ryan says
“I love this song.”
I say,
“I used to.”
My eyes drift to the
waitress.
Her eyes catch mine.
She smiles.
I assume this is
because
I tip well.
At the end of the night
she writes
her number on
my receipt.
I fold it and put it in my pocket
and begin to leave.
As the songs
we used to listen to,
fade in the
distance,
I find myself
alone on the street.
Aug 12, 2015
Aug 12, 2015 at 5:51 PM UTC
I stare at the ceiling
In a hotel room
In Duluth.
I wonder if
I will ever have a book
That finds its home
On shelves
At Barnes and Noble.
I wonder if
Former lovers
Will pick it up
Looking for
The poems I wrote
For them.
Jul 8, 2015
Jul 8, 2015 at 7:27 PM UTC
Supine
On the floor
Of an unfinished treehouse
I stare into
The glow
Of a Wednesday
Morning.
My sketch pad
And a few
Unfinished books
Scattered around me
Some are fiction
Others not.
I stare into the
The ever lightening
Sky, searching
For inspiration.
She took that with
Her.
I lost a sense of
What beauty is
When I no
Longer woke to
Her eyes.
Poems and sketches sit
half finished
And I lie half
-- of what I was.
In a world that
Has such a complete
Understanding
Of every
Morning
Breath.
Jul 7, 2015
Jul 7, 2015 at 6:21 PM UTC
I remember the
Morning she
Said "goodbye"
Instead
Of "I love you."
Looking around
The room
Clothes hung from the side
Of the laundry basket,
Books sat half-finished
On the bookshelf,
Her dresser drawer, empty now,
Was still open.
A chickadee was
Singing outside
And her now vacant spot
On my bed was
A valley of
Forgotten pillows.
The blankets twisted
Like a river
Through it,
She had taken months, to
Find the right patterns
For them.
I glanced to the windowsill
She used to keep her
Hair binders on. There were
Small rings of dust
Around their spot.
I still sleep on
The right side of
And that chickadee
Sings again, every morning.
But the pillows and blankets.
Have lost their form.
May 19, 2015
May 19, 2015 at 7:12 PM UTC
With the blatant
Guess work
Of a my
First chemistry
Set
The girl
In the denim jacket
Reaches for
Creamers,
And sweeteners,
And sugars.
First one
Then another
And then the first again.
Each time
Tasting her
Iced-coffee
To see
If it is just right.
A child cries in the corner.
Her father tries to console
Her screams.
I laugh to myself
As I wonder if her
Coffee didn't turn out just right.
The girl in the jacket
Is still
Mixing
And tasting.
She has pretty auburn hair.
Across the street,
The railroad crossing
Sign swings down.
Crying out a
Familiar
Ding, ding,
Ding, ding.
A group of graduate
Students
Discuss the complexities of art
Over a yellow pad
And some chai lattes.
"There's more to it than that,"
The oldest one says,
His voice raised as he stands.
I take a sip of my coffee
And look to the counter.
The baristas here
Don't smile on Saturdays.
The cute one makes a mocha,
While the other takes an old man's
Order.
The girl in the denim
Walks toward her seat,
A backpack in hand.
The crossing gate still chimes.
Ding, ding,
Ding, ding.
I debate adding some
sweetener
To my coffee,
But remember
I like it black.
I debate
Discussing the
Complexities of art
But decide I like
it
simple.
The crossing gate
Continues to ring
Ding, ding.
I like it better
Here during
The week, when
The baristas
Remember to
Smile.
Apr 18, 2015
Apr 18, 2015 at 3:36 PM UTC