I was thinking about Poe,
that poor dark son of a *****
wandering the streets of Baltimore
with ravens in his pockets
and stories clawing at his ribs,
and the bells—
always those ******* bells.
Too odd for the bourgeois,
too broke for solace,
a mind that wouldn’t let Annabel Lee rest
while the grave kept calling.
He wrote like a man with a fever
trying to outrun the cemetery,
quill pen shaking in his hand,
every word a flickering candle.
They say lunacy.
They say ***** and *****
I’ve heard maybe rabies
from a cat he loved.
They always want to make a pet out of tragedy,
something to control.
But I know what hunger looks like—
that emptiness that won’t shut up
until you get the words down,
the line,
that dirt road through the madness.
Dylan Thomas knew it too,
knew it on the rocks and neat,
saw the way words can sing
long into that good night,
even while the liver taps out.
He left Wales
and did the collegiate tour in America.
Poems couldn’t save him
from lectures and tenure.
Fern Hill became a parking lot
as he insulted his brain with bourbon.
They call it romantic.
Horse ****
It’s just a pudgy little man
trying to quiet the crowd in his head
with vowels and whiskey,
trying to tame the fire
without getting burned.
And Van Gogh—
******* Vincent—
cutting a little piece off himself
as a present for a *****
Sunflowers blazing
like big jagged fires,
yellow flames in his mind,
screaming what his mouth never could.
History says he was broken and mad,
but broken things understand light.
Crazy people smile more
than bored people ever do.
He knew beauty was temporary,
that starry nights would exit stage right
and fade to black.
And he didn’t look away.
The paint was food.
The canvas an empty stomach.
These weren’t legends.
They lived.
They had mothers
and brushed their teeth.
They used the toilet.
They were men with rough luck,
tragic habits,
and a pure need to create something
before the clock called them home.
They loved.
They lived hard, fast,
walking bent into a cruel world.
Not because they loved death,
but because they couldn’t stand
silent mediocrity.
Here’s to Poe in the alley,
Dylan at the pub,
Vincent staring down peasants and sunlight
with equal love.
They paid the price.
It cost them.
Blood, ***** and sadness
for the crime of seeing too much.
And somehow, someway,
a few of the blind
learned to see.
Dec 19, 2025
Dec 19, 2025 at 8:01 AM UTC
I was thinking about Poe,
that poor dark son of a *****
wandering the streets of Baltimore
with ravens in his pockets
and stories clawing at his ribs,
and the bells—
always those ******* bells.
Too odd for the bourgeois,
too broke for solace,
a mind that wouldn’t let Annabel Lee rest
while the grave kept calling.
He wrote like a man with a fever
trying to outrun the cemetery,
quill pen shaking in his hand,
every word a flickering candle.
They say lunacy.
They say ***** and *****
I’ve heard maybe rabies
from a cat he loved.
They always want to make a pet out of tragedy,
something to control.
But I know what hunger looks like—
that emptiness that won’t shut up
until you get the words down,
the line,
that dirt road through the madness.
Dylan Thomas knew it too,
knew it on the rocks and neat,
saw the way words can sing
long into that good night,
even while the liver taps out.
He left Wales
and did the collegiate tour in America.
Poems couldn’t save him
from lectures and tenure.
Fern Hill became a parking lot
as he insulted his brain with bourbon.
They call it romantic.
Horse ****
It’s just a pudgy little man
trying to quiet the crowd in his head
with vowels and whiskey,
trying to tame the fire
without getting burned.
And Van Gogh—
******* Vincent—
cutting a little piece off himself
as a present for a *****
Sunflowers blazing
like big jagged fires,
yellow flames in his mind,
screaming what his mouth never could.
History says he was broken and mad,
but broken things understand light.
Crazy people smile more
than bored people ever do.
He knew beauty was temporary,
that starry nights would exit stage right
and fade to black.
And he didn’t look away.
The paint was food.
The canvas an empty stomach.
These weren’t legends.
They lived.
They had mothers
and brushed their teeth.
They used the toilet.
They were men with rough luck,
tragic habits,
and a pure need to create something
before the clock called them home.
They loved.
They lived hard, fast,
walking bent into a cruel world.
Not because they loved death,
but because they couldn’t stand
silent mediocrity.
Here’s to Poe in the alley,
Dylan at the pub,
Vincent staring down peasants and sunlight
with equal love.
They paid the price.
It cost them.
Blood, ***** and sadness
for the crime of seeing too much.
And somehow, someway,
a few of the blind
learned to see.
I just posted a new long-form reading on my YouTube channel — the first half of my short story Whoops! along with two poems, There Was a Time Without the Internet and Under My Bed.
If you’d like to hear the work read aloud, you can find it here:
👉 YouTube Reading: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Kq0UTaJahjg
If you’re interested in the books, they’re available on Amazon under my name — poetry and short fiction, raw and unpolished, for those who like it that way.
Also, a quick shout-out: a group of us meet on Zoom the last Friday of every month to read poetry and talk shop. It’s relaxed, welcoming, and always a good time. I’d love to see more familiar (and new) faces.
Thanks, as always, for reading — and for the continued support.
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