Category Archives: Prose Poem

2026, Day Book, everyday words, Ohio River Valley Literature, poetry, Prose Poem, psychogeography, the no-scape

birds of blind faith and chaos and memory

The red cardinal looks fat and unhappy, perched on top of the shepherd’s hook holding an empty bird feeder. We have broken faith, and the birds will remember. The grackles, at least, understand the chaotic nature of the world and have found other places to graze in a most anti-environmental fashion. Farmers don’t like grackles because they eat the corn when it’s green on the stalk and aren’t as sociable as crows to believe in crucified straw men. Farmers don’t like grackles for the same reason some people don’t like cats: grackles and cats act more like we are than we’d like to tell ourselves we are.  Thus, like the faithless in any culture, grackles are outlaws, but don’t take it personally, as one day the seed or suet will always be gone. The cardinal took off, but will return. They are birds of blind faith.

Standard
2026, everyday words, Ohio River Valley Literature, poetry, prose, Prose Poem

one person’s truth is another’s annihilation

I remember the landscape of my old homeground by the absence of landmarks. Rolling east on the Appalachian Highway, the absence of green space shook my mental map and memory of the place. There used to be great draughts of space between Eastgate and the wild lands of southeast Ohio. It was the escape into a space that still felt unsettled and a little more free, a little more dangerous. The kind of place a person could test themselves and still breathe clean air and see the stars at night. Before the cellphone towers, before fiber optic tentacles and the empty promise of economic recovery. The only lies were the ones people told themselves, the ones from which great and terrible futures are written.


Standard
2026, Day Book, Poet's Life, Prose Poem

Daybook 2026 // Winter 1.10.26

I’ve hidden long enough in the world of work.

Now my work is my world.

Standard