Category Archives: nonfiction

2023, incomplete memoir, nonfiction, Ohio River Valley Literature, prose, the no-scape, Working Class Literature

A recovery update: 4 weeks to the day

Some of my post-surgery recovery reading: the new memoir from Werner Herzog.

Trying to keep busy is awful. Waiting is the worst. You’d think I’d have all this time to write, and generally, the amount of writing I do corresponds to the amount of time I have.

But I also tend to write better when I’m on the move… or at least in motion. At work. On the road. In between. Something. I feel a little stuck in my head. All the words tumbling uncontrolled like a high water crest rolling downriver towards a broken dam.

Waiting is unnatural for me, in the same way that being this stationary is unnatural. People are sometimes surprised to learn that my natural state is in motion, since I’m on the tubby side. But the human body is a machine made to function best in motion. At least this works towards some advantage with my PT.

Amanda got home from work yesterday, exhausted from the Good Work of the World. She fell like a lightning struck oak on her side of the bed face first — not even bothering to remove her purse or hoodie. To her credit we still managed to get out of the house. We went to Lowes yesterday to buy a new toilet seat because the old one cracked, and no one likes getting bit on the butt. I was very little help in the replacement process, but I did enjoy the outing. Scratch that. I NEEDED the outing and she, rockstar that she is, tolerated my lousy mood.

Maybe there’s truth to the stories of hardware stores’ rejuvenative powers?

We also at dinner at Kashmir, our favorite Indian restaurant. The saag paneer was amazing, if not a little spicier than normal.

The couple in the booth behind us reeked of an odor that I call “redneck headshop”… that powdery, floral combination incense that very white midwesterners associate with Far Eastern Enlightenment. [NAMASTE Y’ALL!] Even a little chokes the oxygen out of the room like the incense used during High Ceremony Catholic Mass. It didn’t take away from the food, though, or the amazing company.

Which is to say: thank you, Amanda, for being so amazing. I don’t deserve you. Then again, you knew what you were getting into… ❤️

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2023, essay, nonfiction, Ohio River Valley Literature, Poet's Life, prose, the no-scape

A Brief Note on (Poetic) Composition

There are as many poetic craft and composition regimens as there are poets. Some have more ritualized processes than others. Some can only write in the morning. Some can only write late into the night. Some carve their time after supper and when the kids are in bed. Some write prolificly. Some are slow and steady crafters. Some write every day. Some only write when they feel properly inspired.

There are no writing practices that are more correct than others. They all work or don’t depending on the particular poet and their particular life.

Nearly all of my poems and 95% of my prose, including this bit, are written in the moment. I revise very little.

Lately I write in brief down times during my work day… raising steam or working the throttle on the Belle of Louisville tends to have a similar effect on my writing.

Sometimes I start out with the intention to focus on a particular style… a sonnet or a tanka or a ghazal or a haiku. Mostly I let the poem lead. Sometimes the poem allows me to lead. The relationship is an organic one.

There are times when the poems drive themselves daily and more often. Sometimes there’s a bit of gunk in the line, and the poems drive slower, or not at all, and not necessarily to my satisfaction. In that case, I revisit themes, the landscapes ajmnd geography of things I’ve written, or I read a new poet or I find an poet I’ve read before and I read them again. Sometimes I read something other than poetry.

So if there is an apparent haste in my poetry or it slows down in number or in quality, I generally don’t dwell. I just vent the burners and fire again.

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2023, nonfiction, Ohio River Valley Literature, the no-scape, Working Class Literature

figure eights and two half-hitches to the future past

Leave the heat at the door. Drenched through and still a bit dehydrated, I unlock the door and carefully trudge into the house. Home. Greeted by the dogs, each one requires a word, a pet. They’ve learned to be quiet when Amanda’s asleep. Sometimes when I don’t work too late, she tries to stay up and see me. Tonight she fell asleep, exhausted after a hard day. She does the Good Work of the World, this present world. I am working my way into the future past. This house is where our timelines join.

She tells me about her day in brief. I have learned how to let it roll over me. Was a time I worked in her world. Was a time and though it was a good time it was also not a good time. The world was in the process of another in a long number of unspoolings. 2020 was an unspooling year. A year of lines coming unwound, like the lines tying the Belle to the wharf.

We are all held by figure eights and two half-hitch knots. We are all floating, an endless fleet. She and I are two boats tied together. When she tells me about her day I think of the madness chasing the walls of the old church, and remember why I am in the future past.

The boat I work on is a memory machine. It’s docked on the edge of four worlds. On days like today, I leave the heat outside the door and sink into the comfort of this now. It will be waiting for me when I go back out tomorrow.

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