Cleaning the coffee pot; cleaning the kitchen,
perhaps. Looking up the weather three
times before remembering it.
Investing in rain boots.
Googling “eco-friendly rain boots.”
Checking in on Putin.
Sulking over the empty room with the
full closet and the smell of the lemons
in the silk. Closing the door.
Stepping out only to step back in.
(Water the girlfriend’s cat.)
Falling into a reverie of the walk
to the corner store in the spring,
where the man
with the beard and the Bluetooth
knows how you take it.
(Pay the parking tickets.)
Wondering if you accidentally said,
“meiosis” when you meant “mitosis”
last Tuesday on the phone with
Bea, some convoluted analogy.
Regretting attempting—embarrassing—
but smiling, remembering
how Bea took her coffee:

light, not sweet.
Thinking of gesturing “scratching
my head,” while estimating
the grams of sugar in skim.
Watching the numbers,
evaporating from the yellowing mug,
linking arms with the rain drops,
falling into the cat’s bowl.
Pittering and pattering and splattering.
(Wipe that up.)
And breathing. Right. There’s always breathing.


Sometime last week I came across the lovely work of Sophie Fontaine.

Sophie’s photos feel curiously familiar as new places often do in dreams. With an analog camera in Nancy, France, she so beautifully captures the solitude experienced in nature and the nostalgia found inside of an abandoned home.

It is far too easy to fall into a reverie on these rainy April days. Let Sophie’s photos be of…

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it was really good well what I managed to read

often times I take things down, edit, & repost… but thanks, guy!

did you just delete a poem?

never deleted, saved to drafts x

If I was an editor I would've featured your last poem. I have always enjoyed your work and I am glad that I accidentally found your blog again. This is a new blog for me after deleting an older one.

Neat, thank you. I’m glad you messaged me, I enjoy your writing (and taste in film) as well

The sweetness we find in the
monogamous penguins, the attraction
toward a compatible astrological sign.
I always did get tender when
I would be mistaken for my older sister
on the phone, way back in the day of land-
lines and computer rooms. Would you agree
that most of us are generally frightened
by bees? Two summers ago in the backseat
of a Honda I was stung on my left inner thigh.
I didn’t warrant it; it’s not like I was lickin’
a lolly, slurpin’ a Cherry Coke. Maybe
he just wanted a different kind of closeness
he wasn’t getting from his old lady back
home; that milky epidermis he’s read
about, its inconsistent horizon, speckled
with sweat and scum and fuzz. Alas—the after
school special had warned them; two-billion
and three bees died just last spring due to
the outbreak of jasmine scented lotion
and jean shorts.

The girl who was an only child grows into
the woman with the hyphenated last name.
Her own half-legacy, the Victorian locket that
was lost in the move. Is that all we have to do
in order to get by? Find the symbiotic
relationships and ride them out ‘til the end?
The ocean will ebb and flow, fingers
laced with the tide, until the tide
meets a muddy creek and Kafka. “With
a little pinot we can all mosey on.” It’s
five o’clock somewhere and Nancy sits
with the eggplant rollatini, Ted’s favorite dish.
In thirteen minutes she’ll receive a phone call
telling that Ted has died in a moment of sin,
the gluttonous bastard, he never did have
enough. But we all get on: I pick the stinger
from my thigh and Nancy pollinates her flowers,
and, of course, tends after her fifty thousand kids.


All recurring joy is pain refined,
bitter memory like vomit
choked my throat:
The day came fat with an apple in its mouth.
It was snowing and you were kind of beautiful,
innocent as a bathtub
full of bullets.
Have you forgotten what we were like then?

No longer far off
or hidden in books,
no, it’s all here,
12:20 in New York on a Friday
standing in the bath tub,
blue as a mackerel.
Dirty but focused as screwy detectives or Plexiglas,
I fake an optimism
just to breathe.
My cousin,
my gastroenterologist, says I’m fine inside.

The rain plays a little sleep song on our roof at night,
my vigour is a new-minted penny.
By now I am on to dicing an onion.
Perhaps I am myself again.

the shark who swims to stay alive

prefers circles to lines,

argues tomatoes

are vegetables.

i saw him at the bar

pouring whiskey in his wine,

anxious of the conversational commitment

that comes with playing pool