Life and stuff, Musings

Still Alive & Sanity Check ’16

It’s a year like any other, I’m told. I tell myself.

A year when the black cat comes to visit, and I feed it tuna, and gaze out at the yard.

A year when I don’t ask questions like “Where does time go?” because I already know.

A year with turbulent skies, strapped in, looking around the cabin, bobbing heads, stumbling stewardess, armful of trash.

It feels a bit unusual, but also a bit ordinary. I’m somewhere in the middle I suppose. Perhaps this is what they call ‘balance’, I think, standing on one foot.

A year with nowhere and everywhere to go.

A year when bongos beat in the mountains and I hear them without leaving bed.

A year when I knock snow from my shoes, get a haircut, adjust my glasses, and pour the darker of the two stouts ’cause the night smokes.

It feels like somewhere I’ve been before, but also a new planet, like the one they discovered last year, Kepler something-something.

Find a better name. Earth is so simple. Who came up with that?

Burnt out candles still smell like birthday cake, the sky is still a bug headlight, it’s 2016, and I’m still sane.

(and still miss the world)



Art, Poetry anytime

Scribblings from the night before

Poetry anytime

On the verge (?)

Some nights (and days for that matter),

I feel that I’m on the verge of insanity.

Whether it is a pleasant form of insanity

or one that knocks me from the surface

I’m not sure

I’m uncertain; but what’s new, Sue?

I survey empty spaces

Light the last of wicks

Drink bottles with no liquid

Smile the smile that no one sees

I remember things that I’ve never remembered until now

The horse running alongside my truck

That waitress or that schoolteacher

I see the stars– same as they’ve always been

’s’all so clear in these moments

And yet I’m on the verge

The verge, then, is to be questioned

Where does it lead, where does it go?

Would I return? Would I care?

And would I know

O would I know

If I were already there?


Life and stuff, Poetry anytime

I won’t lie

I won’t lie.

I still find myself in the padded seat of a parked car on beautiful nights like this. Squat in a random lot, with random crickets and indigestion. The trees stand like blank totems and watch me with answers buried in bark. Shadows play on the ground and the radio display dances mute and maniacal. My heart beats fast for nothing and everything, and I think of nothing and everything. In the distance, howling traffic reminds me that things are still happening and that they will always happen. They’ll happen with or without roads, gasoline, corner store buzz and jingle.

Meanwhile the porch lamps burn electric, and I know there are people behind locked doors, between sheets and dreams, and nearly everyone I’ve met is tucked in somewhere, or wandering about, perhaps getting a glass of midnight milk or morning OJ. Or maybe they’re across the plains wide awake in the parking lot of life. In times of uncertainty– that is to say all times– I ache for humanity and every last creature of the night.

Steel wheel, what do you say?
Old shed, give me a clue.
Crowded drain, how ’bout you?


You damn crickets. You remind me that the night is alive, just like all the bars and pubs and people standing outside with faces and words. Well. That’s fine. I can appreciate alive on both sides.

No, I won’t lie.
I still find myself sitting in parking lots, and I still miss the world.