It's ok to write poems and put them here

one more, sorry. this is the one i've been working on the last few days

Mary Lou Retton Skips

Look at him, skipping rope
He skipped up and down the full length of his block’s sidewalk
without a single slip or halt, not a moment of hesitation
If anything he seems to be craving a mistake
Not at all like Mary Lou Retton, you remember
a nation held its breath, it was the 1984 Olympics
the sprint to the vault pushes those watching to the edges of their seats
she launches, flips, soars, and of course sticks the landing
She demanded perfection of herself in a life full of limits
Now she’s waiting to see what the judge’ would think
Then we saw the score and she heard it and said Yes!
and we all said it together, Ten!, watching on our analog televisions
Moments like that certainly capture my attention.
One hundred percent of it, the career-defining performance
The tip of a spear dipping ever so slightly into transcendence
That’s the boy who effortlessly skips, in the moment, in this moment,
at the top of his game, when life seems so easy
His kid sister walks behind him and watches and smiles
now she’s spinning and he’s romping down the block again

(sorry, that's supposed to go into this:)

I don’t want to be disenchanted, as I sometimes am
As we all are bound to be, lost at sea in the knowledge economy
I try to push back against that drift
because I enjoy being enchanted
In fact, it means pretty much everything to me
When it feels like magic I don’t know what I saw
I know what it felt like, I don’t know it all
I know every spell gets broken, I know where I belong
Every day can’t be like this and this might not happen again
That’s why I hold onto this feeling tightly for as long as I can
when I can find it, when I can hear my voice and change it

(and then figuring out if i want to include this or work it into something else i've been working on. it contains many baseball references, which i'm sure will be wonderful for some and horrible for others, haha):

When the bus dropped me off, as a kid, I had a ritual
I would take off my bag and begin the great spin
Wielding my backpack like an Decathlon competitor holds a hammer
Feeling the slack of the Jansport bag’s thin straps tightening
Gaining momentum
A trapper keeper slammed up against polyester lining
Then I’d whip my book bag off into the air as far as I could possibly throw it
Often with a grand arc, as a performance
As the bus pulled off with some kids laughing from the windows
the school day was done, the home was still home

i changed the name to Skip to my Lou, and the last part is now part of something else. also revised a lot of things, after reading it out loud a few times and hearing where things needed to be

Skip to my Lou

Look at that kid, skipping rope
He skipped up and down the full length of this block’s sidewalk
without a single misstep, no miscues, no reservations
If anything he seemed to be craving a mistake
One to break the winning streak so he could move on to something else

Not at all like Mary Lou Retton, you remember
a nation held its breath, it’s the 1984 Olympics
Her sprint to the vault pushes those watching to the edges of their seats
she launches, flips, soars, and of course sticks the landing
She demanded perfection of herself in a world of limits
Now it all comes down to what the judges should think
She walks past the NBC cameras and we see
the pressure of theater on the brink of the rink
no one blinks, I think, no one breathes
Then we saw the score and she heard it and said Yes!
and we all shouted the number together, Ten!
the announcer, the audience
everyone at home watching on our analog televisions

Moments like that certainly capture my attention.
One hundred percent of it, the career-defining performance
The tip of a spear dipping ever so slightly into transcendence
That’s the boy who skips, seemingly, without effort
in the moment, in this moment
at the top of his game, when life seems so easy
His kid sister walks behind him and watches and smiles
now she’s spinning and he’s romping down the block again
His streak is still going
He can’t retire while he’s still on top because
he hasn’t worked a job
I hope he doesn’t have to for as long as he can

I don’t want to be disenchanted, as I sometimes am
As we are all bound to be, lost at sea
in the knowledge economy or whatever it is that we call this
I try to push back against that kind of heavy drift
because I enjoy being enchanted
In fact, it means everything to me
When I feel magical I don’t know what I saw
I know what it felt like, I don’t know it all
I know every spell gets broken, I know where I don’t belong
I know most days aren’t like this
That’s why I hold onto this feeling so tightly for as long as I can
when I think about my voice and who is changing it

god, things can never be done.

last stanza now starts like this:

I don’t want to be disenchanted, as I sometimes am
As we’re all bound to be, emptied into the sea
in the knowledge economy or whatever it is that we call this
every droplet of water makes its own slow way to the ocean

That Dr Howl one is pure late Bukowski, not a bad thing, I love late Bukowski.

Is this thread really for "works in progress"? Cus your standard and workrate is intimidating, and personally my brain doesn't work between October and like March or summat, so when I had a Big Day opening mail/taking a walk/reading the bible I wrote this down in full awareness I will not be fixing the meter and such until the sun hits my corpse:

I love my auntie's handwriting
It is genuinely illegible, but
It swoops and it soars
Long curves, that (to me)
Illustrate: birds in flight
Messi shots at goal
and paths never took
On walks in the forest
IN THE HILLS

Turf Hill
Scare Hill
Boy's Hill
Burnieshag, Gaerlie
These are high points in my life
(geddit?
never mind...)

Bellhangie
Shoolbraid
Bogton (fucken BOGTON)
These are apparently individual "woods"
But really
(come bosie up and I'll tell you a secret):
It's actually all one big forest
(also my life is one big forest)

But my auntie's handwriting was NOT ALWAYS THIS WAY
I know
Because of my grandfather's bible
His wife put it in my hands when he died, and
Inside
I found a slip of paper
No more than like 3/4 inch square
With a verse from Luke
Bland, rote, capital letters
I would have never known who wrote it
If it wasn't signed
Hilary White

I just wanted to get for my own records before I forgot 1) my Auntie's baffling handwriting 2) The names I googled of where I was walking, I thought it was just "up the forestry", turns out I traversed multitudes 3) the tiny piece of paper I found in the Bible.

Oh also when I woke up today I found this written "chase yirsel son, finish up your compendium of left-handed bassists", I AM COMPILING NO SUCH COMPENDIUM so my only guess is that is meant for song lyrics or poetry

wearing a t-shirt says "emo-adjacent", that's also a scribbling I need to put in something

i really enjoyed reading that! "also my life is one big forest" is something i will remember, hahaha

as far as workrate goes, i'm in a weird temporary thing right now for the next year or two where i don't have a job and i spend my time doing whatever the fuck i want, all the time. it's incredibly self-indulgent and i've only getting to do it by obliterating every dollar i've ever put in any location

for example, i have a list of TO DOs that are getting more urgent - your payments are failing, your prescription is ending, your insurance hasn't started, etc. but instead i'm going to spend the rest of this morning drinking my coffee and working on my baseball poem, because fuck you only live once

also j h m i appreciate your use of capital letters and you sense of parenthetics (in this thread it is ok and good to make up words)

gonna do a quick test to see if this works, using the formatting...

Jonah was tossed overboard
    and Jesus walked upon a sea
            of expectations and Kurt Vonnegut’s reminding me
            so it goes, it’s overflowing, the need for emptiness
            to continue on as your body craves activity
            blood vessels carrying oxygen and nutrients

A Dead Armed Pitcher is Not Yet a Man

The path of a pitched baseball 
can be curv    or sl
           ing      urv
                       ing
          t
narrow or a  
          l
          l
cutt        n
    ing or k u                    arc's
              ckl              the      f
                 ing      bends         a
                 the wind               l
                                        l
slid
    ing or drop
               p
                ing 
    like a sick stomach
    having just reached the top
    of a rollercoaster ride that screams like a rocket until the bottom falls out of it and comes to the most sudden
                                                                                                                stop

Instead of throwing the ball like any of that
I throw it right down the middle
as hard as I can
My ass is handed to me in front of an audience

I grunt when I throw because they asked me to
because if I don’t they’ll ask why I didn’t
because they thought it would add a couple miles per hour
to my cartoonishly slow and extremely hittable deliveries
The other kid grunts back as he slaps a loud smack
The crowd roars because our team is away and they are safe at home
We’re 13 years old, I sucked
I got roughed up on the usual
but our team had no reliable bullpen
so they left me in to soak up the remaining innings
until the 10-run rule arrived, the rule of mercy

Pool

Movies on black and white tvs in barrooms
Fred Astaire smiles and a man plays a flute
I was watching him dance in a musical on mute

When a coquette with a curly q
sticks three quarters into a table which removes
a stop inside of it and prompts sixteen balls to click
together as they roll down a slope to her waiting hands

If I’ve seen it twenty times here, I’ll see it again
but I’ve never anything resembling this
she takes the 6 ball and puts it in one coat pocket
the 4 ball is flipped up in the air as the 9 ball is
touching the floor and now it seems like everyone’s staring at her

Cue ball in her left hand, 8 ball in her right
the green felt under the hanging billiard light
tinted with oranges and yellows and grime

She wound up like a pitcher in the bottom of the 9th
like an old-timey pitcher with the long-winded wind-up
We all saw where she was aiming and where this was going

He started running toward the door
when she finally launched it
where his body had been only a second before
the mirror exploded and the shattered glass scattered quick
as his shadow was seen down the corridor
She grabbed the coat he left behind and walked outside
with a flick of a cigarette

Later that night as the owner cleaned up
and grumbled about the cost of pool ball replacements
there was something that caught my eye
a clear view to the sky, ripped through the ceiling
the size of a cue ball, when did she make that happen
what else does she make happen
i’ll take a manhattan
she paid less than a dollar to make things plain
that’s a good deal in most centuries

You lads <3

Oh you're "on the spectrum"?
We're all on the "spectrum" that's what makes it a spectrum
But some of us use it as a synonym
For "I Act The Dick On The Internet"

Some of us get pennies threwed at our head
In those horrific high school corridors
But (bosie up, I'll give you a callback)
You can feed your family off the subsequent coins

No, we don't use that term
It's ugly, pointed, dismal and tawdry
Don't listen to me, a Doctor will tell you
But that doesn't appear on your 5 year plan

It's like Peel said
on first play of New Puritan
IF YOU THINK IT'S ABOUT YOU... IT'S ABOUT YOU
Let's just go back to bed

6 years into my 5 year plan, and I'm not where I said I'd be
So I live my life in Comic Sans, a forced attempt at levity

3 years on this sofa and still haven't got no sleep
But I live my life in Papyrus, cus I'm ~mystical and deep~

Had my eyes closed when you wrote that note, but I took a sneaky peek
Try to live my life in Futura, up to date and somewhat sleek

So next time you need to move your shit just give me a shout
I'm whatever font but Sans Serif, nae fucking about

Sorry, that one is pretty bad, closer to a party game than a poem, but this is a safe space, right?

I wrote a poem about my REDACTED but then it seemed too TW-ish to post so I replaced every use of the word REDACTED with REDACTED and now it seems creepily sexual? But in a humorous way so here yis go:

There is no honour in this town
But there are a lot of REDACTED
mostly plastic, yellow and black
how can I respect you with that toy in your hand?

My REDACTED was my father's REDACTED
Maybe his father's REDACTED before?
I dunno, we don't speak
The REDACTED is my father now

Stanley 99E, for whatever that's worth
One side half decayed, but then increasingly shiny
At the top end, rubbed by my fingers
As I grasp it in my pocket

The other side, only the tip is burnished
Where my thumb resides
The knife hides secretly as I listen to your tiresome anecdote
Waiting for the bigoted punchline

My brother visited my mother
Whipped out his REDACTED, to prove he's a big man
I just stood back, smirked
Knowing I had the superior REDACTED

And when I sleep tonight
I shall hold the cat against my chest
But the REDACTED will be in reach
Just in case

It resides on the other side of the bed
Vacant, except for the REDACTED
But the REDACTED's presence reassures me
Because I live in REDACTEDTOWN

Fuck I missed one

Better:

There is no honour in this town
But there are a lot of REDACTED
mostly plastic, yellow and black
how can I respect you with that toy in your hand?

My REDACTED was my father's REDACTED
Maybe his father's REDACTED before?
I dunno, we don't speak
The REDACTED is my father now

Stanley 99E, for whatever that's worth
One side half decayed, but then increasingly shiny
At the top end, rubbed by my fingers
As I grasp it in my pocket

The other side, only the tip is burnished
Where my thumb resides
The REDACTED hides secretly as I listen to your tiresome anecdote
Waiting for the bigoted punchline

My brother visited my mother
Whipped out his REDACTED, to prove he's a big man
I just stood back, smirked
Knowing I had the superior REDACTED
And when I sleep tonight
I shall hold the cat against my chest
But the REDACTED will be in reach
Just in case

It resides on the other side of the bed
Vacant, except for the REDACTED
But the REDACTED's presence reassures me
Because I live in REDACTEDTOWN

And that time somehow I deleted a verse break, but I'm not pasting it thirdwise

I’m out of milk, out of butter, and eggs
But I don’t think I’ll be headed to the supermarket today
I‘ve eaten and smoked, I’m partly dressed
I haven’t washed the dishes yet
I’ll be broke soon if I can’t sell something
and I just broke another french press
it fell with a cracking splash into the sink
as I closed a kitchen cabinet
My pointy elbows poked it off the ledge
I’ve been making a lot of clumsy accidents
and it all started after I started wearing glasses
now I have three plastic plungers and zero carafes

Not all messages are displayed: show all messages (371 of them)
Can someone tell Batman why not?!?
Reply to: pers-164487✧✧✧@craigsl✧✧✧.o✧✧
Date: 2006-05-25, 8:25AM EDT

can someone tell Batman why not?!?

Why he can't luv Batgurl? Why can't he luv Batgurl? What's wrong with luving Batgurl?

Thanks! kisst plus kisses for Batgurl

* this is in or around manhattan
* yes -- it's ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests

164487171

There was a quiet family in a crooked land
and a series of bad hands which came to surround them
They lived within a kind of bewilderment
but thought they were outside of it
One day the heavy fog fell on their porch at dusk

They were watching the oranges and blues
and noting the range of lavender hues on view
but mostly they were listening
to cicada waves piling up on each other
picking up the patterns in their rhythms and
getting their whole story and then some
the decayed phrases phasing and fading in and out
papering over the seams of the loop
so there are no beginnings and
no endings

only an old dog’s tail which keeps wagging
every which way smelling like wet grass shavings
Come and get it while it’s still hot
A person that never really was
Their family lives on the corner of a block
You might find near the end of the book
as a form of epilogue
when the rising tension has been resolved
when the plot no longer thickens
They see their friends and warmly thank them
It’s as cold as the dickens out there, isn’t it
I guess some things never change, do they
These are the ones we come home to
the ones who have been missing us
That’s the story we like to tell ourselves
not how it really was

The quiet part has been said quite loudly
Can we roll the credits now?
Can we hear an old favorite in a new arrangement?
We know something’s wrong
but we don’t have the same explanation for it
but do we have to have the same explanation?
I remember when we did
Do we at least agree that the sun has gone down
Nobody says anything
We could all use a breather

When we step outside the shadows are detached
from the objects they used to represent
they fill the valleys with a sense of dread
and grow strongest where there is no light at all
I think they’re leading us to the bottom of a well
and I’m strangely compelled to go along with their plan
to put a lid on me
to be covered up and let it sink in
that I don’t have the faintest sense of what I’m dealing with
the window is closing
Purple and black and darker still until
the chill of my breath is the only thing that’s moving
Something small to take full account of

I’ll speak to you in the morning
the rustling wind under your door, whispering
that something inevitable is approaching

King’s Highway

I saw a dog at a bus stop
but she wasn’t waiting and neither was anyone else
she ran through the repair shop’s lot
and everyone was moving away or staring
She worked her way a bit down the block
And was soon back in the traffic
all the tires squeaked but no one honked
she weaved through the cars like
water through a sieve and
wound up west of the King’s Highway

I watched all of this in horror from the driver’s seat of my car
from the very center of the same King’s Highway
traffic rushing toward me from the left and away from the right
trapped from all sides in a left hand turn lane, waiting, having to wait,
how long could it stay green
she was running out in front of my wheels

some of the cars began to come to a stop
I looked for anyone who was running toward the dog
and found someone holding a leash
her hands were in the air, frozen like me it seemed

The dog was back out in the street
tire squeaks and still no honking
I put on my right-turn signal
and felt the seat belt sting against my neck
as my right hand gripped the passenger headrest

like thin rice noodles squeezing through a colander
I couldn’t believe I made it through
the moving automobile lines and off of it
to a taco bell parking spot
and immediately leapt out of my car like a fool
who still remembers to lock the door with a
remote key while scanning the periphery

I ran down the street to the person with the leash
Are you the owner
Yes, her name’s Nala
Which way did she go
I knew the answer before she answered
I saw it
Nala had turned off the King’s Highway down an alley

My black jacket made rapid plastic swishing noises
I was wearing gray mesh allbirds shoes
with gray pants and a gray shirt
my hair was lavender and yellow and orange and brown
I’m a complete mess, I know it
I took off, completely

She was looking at me, she kept looking back at me
while still barreling down the alley
I turned the corner and ran like the T-1000
that I used to be, for about a minute
probably closer to thirty seconds
it was a longer sprint then I can remember
since the pandemic
BC AD BCE CE
before and after
when meeting people was easy
Nala was on a leash and now we can’t find her
but I’m on her tracks, the only one with the sensor

I couldn’t catch my breath, I was panting
I went over the fence and through the back gate
there are no woods
the alley was grass, then dirt, then concrete
Nala stands at a pass and looks both ways
She instinctively manuevers t-bones at top speed

Somehow I’m at the main street,
the person holding the leash
says to me, Her name’s Nala
I’m Emma
She won’t come to me
She knows we’re putting her away
A postal worker overhears us
and is filled with disgust
We are one of the obstacles in her day
and I see the leashholder’s face is filled with bruised spots
Emma, she’s laughing and her eyes are empty
Nala’s running toward the trainyard
I keep chasing

the same landscape, again and again
the gas station, the restaurant, the intersection
the tire change chain, the telephone lines hanging over
the cars, everywhere cars, starting the cars
starting the story in a car, gradually exiting a car
everyone else is in a car, or otherwise waiting for something
This is a Thursday afternoon, this is a thousand places
this is a hero with a thousand faces
sitting in a car

I almost caught her
I was out of breath
she was down the block
about 200 feet off and I called
Nala! Nala, please!
The same words from before but with a different texture
now I was down and Nala was the young pup
more than ready to run for another hour
Nala, please, Nala
and she came to me with her leash dragging
on the ground behind her
I could see the whites of her eyes
in the prime of her prime of her prime
and no discipline
she came within 5 feet and I jumped the gun
with no discipline, I missed

I reached for the leash but it was beyond my capabilities
and I saw it disappear down another alley
there was a girl watching and she asked
is that your dog?
and i said it’s not my pooch but I’m helping
and felt so silly and I sprinted again, off

I never did find her
I was eight blocks away from my car
I walked back. to my car.
the car, the car.

I ordered 2 cheesy bean burritos
I was out of breath and
forgot to wear my mask
and the man at the window hated me
I think
I never found her, I ran out of breath

The street is cold the dawn is gray my heart says no but my head says stay

What a mess.
What a horrible mess.

The rest of it, shortly to follow.

Where to begin?

The ending started as a walk
with talk of the “immediate future”.

It started in the garden of Eden.
Adam dreamed of an Eve
and was relieved of some of his burdens.
He needed help and they felt no shame.

Dead end street.

The people in the steeple are dying to meet
the one-winged angel with mangy hair and sores on his feet
to be blinded, to be brought to their knees
once and then twice again.

Dead end street.
Dead end street.

People are dying here on Dead End Street.

Here is the rest:

It’s a mess and we’re out of time.
An archeologist digging through our wreck
might be disappointed with what they find.

They won’t find these words
long since windswept
the way we were
the way you are
cannot be captured
I wonder what I have left
and when to leave

I am starting to believe in some things
that didn’t make much sense before

I love your poems Ztbd

that's nice of you to say, thank you! still working on that one a bit, but mainly hoping the kinks don't sue me :-o

also the occurrence of my life being "a mess" is starting to spike, this is alarming! shit

King's Highway and Skip to my Lou are the highlights for me

king's highway is a true story! it happened just the other day. it was simultaneously the most intense exercise i've had in several years and a very, very sad experience. i couldn't really capture any of it. the saddest part was the end, when the dog darted down a sidepath and through someone's backyard yet again, and i knew i was giving up. she had done this maybe 5-7 times already, in the past 20 minutes of chasing, and each time i would run down the street, up the alleys and behind the backyards, and somehow i'd catch a glimpse of her running off somewhere else, always 100 feet away, and i'd kept going. but this time i was just out of breath, and also i had run into the owner one more time and she was a walking drug casualty, just laughing off her dog sprinting through heavy traffic and near accidents and some weirdass stranger running all through the neighborhood after her, asking "did any of you see an off leash dog?" and getting absolutely ZERO answers from anyone, from a dozen different people, just nothing

My uncles are overly mouthy
They have no idea just what is coming
My and my brother just sit and smirk
We both know fine well

My uncles aren't really my uncles
they're like my cousins, once removed? twice removed?
Don't get me wrong, they're really fine fellows
Just no brains in their heads

My brother takes me outside
Wants to smoke a CIGAR with me
Oh ok, but this makes me dizzy
I prefer heroin

Back inside, plaster on a smile
(I'd made a visit to my room, there was heroin)
Those same uncles still in my face
They don't know about the coming flood

And then two years pass
The flood came, I live on the hill
My uncles live in the valley
Don't know what came of them

Actually I need to replace that line "they don't know about the coming flood", I'd rather leave the flood unmentioned until it actually arrives, ken? Otherwise I'm happy with what I just wrote right now

"they don't know about the heroin" I suppose is the relevant substitute

I went back to my room
Stumbled once, hit my knee on the sink
Not a big deal, let's get back to it
Some conversation about football

^^insert that in there

haha, i like these uncles! these dumb butts talking about football, taking over your space

Reconciliation

We’re sitting in your garage, this evening
with the wide door open and it’s 46 degrees
two lawn chairs and two hot teas
peppermint of the Bigelow with no caffeine

It’s been 9 months since I talked to you
It’s been 10 and a half since he died and
It’s been 12 months since he went to the hospital

My neighbor is of the same belief
She feels sorry for me
she says the vaccine causes mass infertility

Last week I scraped the ice off her car, my neighbor’s car
It took about half an hour
and I felt like a good son
or a good someone who managed to do a good something
I thought I used to do a good something everyday
Now I write a poem to commemorate

We poured dog-friendly salt on the stairs to the street
She has a job caretaking for the elderly
and has your same first name and is of the same age
but in other ways she is nothing like you
She’s an artist with her own studio
She prays the rosary

Am I allowed near Avalon
if I don’t want to be
If I don’t know how to laugh
at a joke like that
When I’m still talking and no one’s listening
except myself, and barely at that

Yet I think I’m the only voice of reason
in this situation
The one who knew to stay inside
The one who knew it would get so bad
two weeks earlier than most people did
here comes the jeremiad

…
No, this time I don’t think I’ll share that
not this time, I still want you to laugh
and I don’t want you to get caught up
in the long tail unreasonable stuff
that the bulk of us seem to be stuck i

n

I heard a speedboat caught a wave and hopped
right over a dock
It started in the ocean
It landed in the bay
Someone was underneath the boat when it happened
I’ve never seen anything quite like that, they said
It flew right over my head
They were dry and he was soaking wet

I heard this same boat sped straight through the inlet
luckily the beachgoers took notice and fled
as the lifeguard took a video from the lookout perch
the back of an 18-wheeler opened up
and extended a ramp out into the water
the ship accepted the lift
twin mechanical amphibians
the boat slid up into the big rig
which took off with a pop and a shower of smoke

I heard a firetruck showed up in the aftermath
and as the crowd was dispersing some drunk man said
What are they gonna do, put out the ocean?!
and no one laughed or made eye contact
so this guy yelled it again, and his voice cracked -
Are they gonna put out the wa-ter?
the captive audience cringed and dispersed at greater distances
and a little kid kept asking Wait, what happened?

i am trying to be less longwinded

changed middle to

I heard this same boat sped straight through the inlet
luckily the beachgoers took notice and fled
as the lifeguard took a video from their lookout perch
the back of an 18-wheeler opened up
and extended a long metal ramp
the ship met the lift and skipped from water to land
mechanical amphibians
the boat slid up into the big rig
which then took off with a shower of gross smoke

one more once:

I heard this same boat sped straight through the inlet
luckily the beachgoers took notice and fled
as the lifeguard took a video from their lookout perch
the back of an 18-wheeler opened up
and extended a long metal ramp
the ship hit the lift and slid into the big rig
skipping from water onto land
mechanical amphibian
the truck took off and left a shower of gross smoke

Here's a short something I wrote back in 2008, working as a dishwasher in a restaurant in the middle of nowhere. I don't know if it's good or if it's embarrassing:

Over dishwater steam I witness
my gorgeous intentions crumbling.
Feta cheese over mixed greens.

Immersed in scalding water
my lobster-red hands reach for the stopper
and pull.

that brings up non-fond memories of washing dishes at long john silvers, back in the day
i was so slow, somehow, the slowest. the managers hated working with me because i'd still be washing the fucking dishes when they finished up the register

Aw, that sucks. The place I worked at was slow enough that I often had spare time to think up tiny poems I still remember 14 years later. I actually sorta liked that job. Free food and fairly low expectations.

me and my dog have a running gag about works in progress. they're called works in pawgress. :P

On tonight’s
unsolved mystery
An ordinary man
facing an uncertain destiny
pulled back the curtains
and dug beneath the leaves
a car pulled up into the driveway
he didn’t recognize the driver
he brought in some groceries
the blinds closed
the smoke alarm was out of batteries
the garbage can was overflowing
the dog kept whining
the key didn’t fit the lock
the basement door is open
the botched wood filling job
the siding is crumbling
the third floor balcony
the broken statue in the morning

soundtrack: ba-Dom ba-Dom-ba Dom bum, ba-Dom ba-Dom-ba Dom BING____

Z I hope you have a more permanent archive and a way to reach a wider audience, these are great and have a real "voice". Genuinely great writing for my money.

the rider of the electric scooter
gliding like a still life coasting up
a hill of beans meant more to me
than the limbs of arcing delivery
loose and sinewy
it was all we wanted
in the sandlot heat
to hang a crooked number
in the fifth frame, throw it
somewhere near the middle
uncut fields hides a cat nap
but my left leg’s gone numb
so i’ll see you in the groupchat

At the bar , I ordered a beer and went to the bathroom
I had been here five years ago
Someone had painted over my tiniest of graffiti

A Song

A song for the outstretched fields of France and the endless games of chance and the needles on the blackboard and the skin razor flute bagpipe jollies and the tight pants naked folly and the syrup-laden sled across hippie homestead quickenings and the stew of my mind corn thickening and your fragrant oily dreadclumps and the self-help spine-bound entreaties and the last of the self-made Mohicans and the first of the metaphysical swallows and the third of the post-structuralist waitresses and the ninth resurrected magician and a song, a song, a song.

The toothy grin
Of the man driving the ice cream truck
As he drove into the Macy's storefront
Is not an American tragedy

Because

Only mannequins died

But

I'm still jealous of the mannequin
In a way

It’s ok to lose
And not say anything
at the bar
It’s somewhat expected
And better than being coked up
and chatty

“The promise of the night”
Is nothing
But it’s nice to pretend

1, 2, 3 and to the 4
Stefan from UPS is at your door
He's been here for ten minutes, so open up
Or he'll rip your fuckin package up

Will you ever learn?
toaster waffles are no good
they're too thin to keep their shape
and in the heat they burn

sugar syrup scorches
on the nichrome wires
they may smell nice
but the taste leave much
to be desired

You appeared / you didn’t
She’s stocking the fridge?
Been downstairs for a minute

climbing the curtains
covered in flies
wiling the hours away
drawn to the air
pulled to the screen

look through the window of opportunity

is the world happening
is god so gracious
is god so sweetly
turning over the soil
working all the time
on juniata street

please don’t leave my virtual hellscape

but you took my loot
yes you did!
you yanked it out from under me
while i was trying to help you
i used my last magic points
to cast respawn and save your ass
the trouble of the long journey
you appeared as if out of thin air
the next dimension slicing through

again you lived
and then you immediately took my loot
even though your inventory was full
so you had no space for the the stolen items
i watched you drop your common boots
and your starting short sword
and a torch, unlit

i watched you pick up the legendary axe
a legendary, two-handed axe
which you are not permitted to use
given your singled-minded focus on luck and charisma
and frankly game-breaking ignorance of
strength and endurance

the legendary two-handed axe
rightfully mine but a burden to you
your movement is minus two
the party is only as fast as the slowest mover
(you. you. you!)
—i didn’t mean to criticize
no, i think
the way you loot
breaks all of my rules
please don’t leave my virtual hellscape

artly because
the spotted circle shirt
thick mustache drooping down
and talking of leaves, missing leaves
double sharpened pencil
twirls on the thumb

his seat is a waterslide
with five legs in 2.3d

teetering notetaker brings his knees
close to the nose
way up on the workstation
posture strictly aligned
along the y-axis
and an expressionless stare

fish eye lens warps
the negative space
when asked to speak
… tapestry

No more bullshit
Not here for what I’m here for

leave your dreams
as of this late era date, [current date],
writing complete sentences felt impossible, but it had to be done. compromises were to be expected. we understood them to be necessary to create documents of submission, a submission to a zine which demanded conformity to a certain set of written and electronic standards. we say to ourselves that we don’t have any rules…no rules except for these. the rules for submitting to A Moment Zine. 2025. winter 2025, a time of great–
ding—my bullshit photoshop monthly subscription is going from 10 dollars to 15–
creative cloud my ass–
sorry, i forgot what i was doing, it’s a good thing, because i need to focus! starting here: 
in the tortoise and the hare, i am the hare. down to the ears. on a tarot card, i am the fool. but the fool’s not bad at all! proud fools! they get where they’re going fast and take a nap. 
and do they take it slow? and is that where they wanna go?
and way down in kokomo, yes we all know, but no! the tortoise goes as slow as it wants, and i can sprint down the path if i want, and i can take a nap if i want, and i probably will. 
the beginning of the journey is often the best. nice and fresh. 
well rested. hometown theme music plays on a mini-kalimba. 
please, join me in reciting “I am a Little Painter”: 🎶
(open book to near the beginning)
…though who is to say i could not try writing in complete sentences, or at least make moves in that direction? And while I’m at it, I could think about doing some capitalizing and modestly punctuating, too. I should pick a tense and stick with it. “Perhaps the past”, he said, “no, let us be present”, I said, “and while we’re at it, let’s use a consistent perspective as well”, we said.
“Not ‘we said’, ‘I said’”, I said. “And I say.”
Surely these inconsistencies can be ironed out by the editing team before it hits the zine press: Imagine my punctuation, this very sentence, perfect, more or less! And my grammar as well! Imagine I kept up the good punctuation and grammar until its quality, the lack of cracks in its tall and long walls, came to be expected and unnotable. 
Dependability. Reliability.
This is how truck commercial narratives get written.
And then, on top of that, if my words were reliably introducing new and interesting points, little things to think about, morsels, and dishing them out at a good pace - nice and steady but with enough space left between each fresh tidbit to cause audible deviations in the septum, the one with the whistling nasal passages, the 
hmph!
(close book)
I wish I could share more, but that was a limited, exclusive excerpt from the introduction of my sensorial memoir, Sounds from the Big Nose: Early Years. However, I can share some of the early reactions that I’ve received, which will be printed on the back of the book:
(slowly skimming through the blurbs with a pained expression)
a lot of these are rather indirect. but i like this one:
–the written word, spoken out loud, there’s nothing like it!
Right? *long sip of beverage* Ahhh!
(refreshed seltzer lips)
And what a lovely crowd!
And what an excellent ceiling. Or maybe there is no ceiling, here.
It really depends on where this is read, and if this is read.
In one version, one of many possibilities
You say “what…?”, in this one I say 
What…an excellent area to look at, up there!
(While your eyes search for an area of excellence to look at up there, I introduce the theme from the thrilling soap opera “Kitchen Situations: Justice Hour”, where every episode must end on a cliffhanger)
now that the dishes are all clean
nest of four pans 
elephant on its side might be
plastic figuring
the reflections of a mirror
closer than      they appear
wonder who       watches who 
is inside the        negative 
space which      shows the 
way into the     kitchen 
where the       dishes 
are never      done 
and can     anything ever be
finished   in an all night diner
in this all night diner?
find out next time on:
Kitchen Situations : Justice Hour :: Leave Your Dreams: Invitation to Love
You had to be there, but you almost always have to be there. And now we can’t, even if we once were there, even if we once did. I write as if you were here, I speak as if there is a you or you all there, listening, but it starts as a voice speaking to itself in the place others can’t hear. Who was it for, if for none of the above. All for none, none for all! and plenty of time and patience left over for this evening, or morning

The day I bought Katy lied
Dogs were humping my leg
And children were running around the bar

a few hours
before my words
were of yesterday
i traced them
a few years
after your words
ceased to be

wore the summer in
dirt heat moonlit paths
showing a way to the creekbed
stop and hear where it is
the water cannot pause
or hold its breath to listen
no need to decide
if it is real as you or i
this heartbeat in the ground
below where old wind goes
to be turned over again

sorrow
is like vomiting
if each expulsion made you feel sicker
with bottomless contents in the stomach

sorrow
is like waiting for sunrise every day
with dark clouds always in the way

sorrow
is being too tired to scream
and too angry to cry
and being frustrated by the inability to do either

sorrow
is the phone ringing at the right time
but the wrong number

sorrow
is "I want"
inevitably followed by "I can't"

holy minimalism mix you wouldn’t believe
it’s as if i’ve died and gone to heaven
why it’s written in the sky over there
but we can’t read what it spells
yah wonder what it means
it’s a lit up fun machine
floating freely rotating
we buy what it sells
handfuls of old
books i keep
for myself
making
zero
$

before words, mountain
stone becoming sand
decomposing softer, smaller,
indifferent to destination
sliding to the sea
drifting between land
after words, choosing quiet

hey ya boomerang fly back
don’t get too used to thqt

tree

where i threw the boomerang
where i think it went
it went
phwoooooosh-phew-phew-phew….
the sound trailed off as it flew
thousands probably tens of thousands of feet ahead
farther than the scope of my vision
i forget in which direction
it went over a mountain

what do i want
what do i want

i went on like that
flip a coin on it
on which direction was which

one foot in front of the other
toward something

something i forget
smile lines chiseled wide near the eyes
were signs of an easy grin

to go on living like that
seemed like the thing

i saw it before i heard it hit my face
phew-phew-phew slap

or even better if you can believe it

heya boomerang fly back
don’t get too used to that 
tree tree tree
tree tree tree
tree tree tree
tree tree tree
tree tree tree
tree tree tree
      tree
       tree
        tree
where i threw the boomerang
where i think it went 
it went
phwoooooosh-phew-phew-phew…
did the sound trail off as it flew-flew-flew-flew...
thousands probably tens of thousands of feet ahead
farther than the scope of my vision
i forget in which direction
it went over a mountain
what do i want 
what do i want
things went on like that
flipped a coin on it
on which direction was which
one foot in front of the other
toward something
something i forget
smile lines chiseled wide near the eyes
were signs of an easy grin
to go on living like that
seemed like the thing 
so things went on like that
i saw it before i heard it hit my face
phew-phew-phew slap
got a bit too used to that, hyuck

also on top of everything else i think it’s ok to post multiple versions of the same thing. if you don’t care then you never cared and if you did care then it’s sometimes interesting to know how things change and how nothing is final, ever, it’s just when you leave it alone (and god i need to just _leave things alone_)
heya boomerang fly back

tree tree tree
tree tree tree
tree tree tree
tree tree tree
tree tree tree -------------
tree tree tree
tree
tree
tree

where i threw the boomerang
where i think it went
it went
phwoooooosh-phew-phew-phew…
did the sound trail off as it flew-flew-flew-flew...
thousands probably tens of thousands of feet ahead
farther than the scope of my vision
i forget in which direction
it went over a mountain

what do i want
what do i want

things went on like that
flipped a coin on it
on which direction was which

one foot in front of the other
toward something i forget
smile lines chiseled wide near the eyes
were signs of the easy grin

approaching living like that
seemed like the thing

til i felt it hit my face
phew-phew-phew
boomerang's back

i can be open or closed

how are you feeling, physically
can you locate it
without judgment
we all have a cop in our heads
but i have a cop in my blood

but you’re doing fine
given the circumstances
the upbringing, etc

anticipated flood

pray for us
send us love
fuck us all twice a month
I pay to be asked
how are you feeling
and then i laugh
oh the usual
up and down
and and and
lateral ellipses
rewarding my instincts
inside i’m blinking

thinking of nothing
distractions are thoughts
so many thoughts
put to the side when noticed
pile of thoughts as identity
everchanging thoughts as
everchanging identity
that’s a thought, to the side
put to the side, noticed

my trouble crying recently
is now a creek
sigh of release
i want to forget
and i forget
nothing in peace return
nowhere to sit with it

fear is natural
fear is a natural response
get in touch with their hearts
i know i can
always start with that

farm animal

three legs good
one legged bud
it’s more than enough
to slow doze, chewing the cud 
sleeping standing up
not thinking of no clothes
birthday’d with a cake of mud
carried til gulch water 
flaked off the residue

That feeling
When you’re invisible
In the city

clown act on television
moving in and out of fashion
high wire act
with all the world below
sell us all out
for a line of blow

partying with so-called friends
when will this all end?
it's past time
for this show to be over
before it ends
in a nuclear supernova

No responsibilities
Jet-lagged as fuck
Supergrass

Blonde adult girl at the bar
Tall one who smiled at me that one time when I was sitting outside
at the corner seat
Saw me when I came in to refill
My hand over my face
She has gotten older
And has skeletal fingers
And around one on her left hand
Is a thin diamond studded band