Monthly Archives: November 2015

Minor Existential Crisis in a Corn Field in a Small City in Ohio

Tonight the dusk

seems like it will last forever

and the silver crescent

moon is going to hit me on the head

if I don’t duck in time.

But the last paleness leaves the sky

when God spills

an inky black mess

across a beautiful sunset


as an afterthought

decorates with a dash of glittery stars.


I wrap the luxury of my earthly concerns

across my rounded shoulders and exhale and wonder

about my heart and if perhaps I should try to

break it just to see if it still works.


A Friday the 13th massacre in Paris and

yet I had a pretty good day on Friday,

and for this

I am not sure if I am grateful or guilty.









Frame of Mind

Gunshots ring

outside my window but

no big deal, I live by

a sportmen’s club and

they routinely practice

firing rounds

less than a mile away from

where I sleep

and shower

and it’s a funny thing

how perspective

can frame the mind

to where I can be

conditioned to see

something like

hearing gunfire as typical

and safe everyday business

but for some, it

means the end of the world,

outside their windows,

right there and

right then.

Tree in November

I see your skeleton again.

It’s that time of year

when you have cast aside your leaves,

unflinching, unapologetically

departing thousands of tiny foolish notions

that it was ever better to hide behind

some contrived beauty

that is now wasted away,

quietly fluttering to the ground,

softly shattering beneath my footsteps

and returning to formless earth.

I see your skeleton again.

Not just your finest, greenest moment on boastful display,

but every single mundane one.

Every inch of limb and root telling a story of an instant

when you grew,

when you were,

a notation of times even when the sun was not shining

and the earth was frozen,

each moment equal and part of something larger than itself,

a timeline of winding curving branches

like the lifeline across my palm,

a map of a life spent

sometimes bending yet remaining


“The Solace of Leaving Early”

“Art is the only way to run away without leaving home.” – Twyla Tharp

There is a car broken down on the side of the freeway

near my house

and it’s been there for over a week now,

a note taped in the back window

which I keep wanting to read.

I wonder what it says.

Left to start over,

time for a new life,

or maybe

This car sucks, free for takers.

I got caught in a traffic jam last week

and thought about walking away from

the car and my life

and starting anew

and it’s not that my life is so bad

because it isn’t really

but I’m just bored with feeling like

a hamster in a wheel,

going and going and not getting

much of anywhere.

I wonder what note I would leave

taped in my back window:

Gone fishing

or maybe

Stopped sweating the small stuff.

What are the odds I would have a Post-It note

in my possession

at the time?

Write it on my grave