6.
so yesterday’s heat
blew into this morning’s chill
March is not done
7.
nostalgia radio
remember when, remember
the morning as it wasn’t
[Day book 2026 // Spring 3.23.26]
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Poet. Essayist. Fictioner. Steamboat fireman. Bit of a grackle.
I go back and watch shows with an obsession. I don’t know why. Lately I’ve been going back and watching Mulder and Scully. Sometimes I miss the skepticism and paranoia of my childhood. An odd turn of nostalgia at that, being a child raised in a world in which the infrastructure was crumbling and being repaired with Hubba Bubba and Brillo Cream caked prayers.
But you miss little things the first time through, watching for the plot. Like Lawn jockeys; just an odd transition shot that had nothing to do with the plot. The lawn jockey was about establishing tone, true; the Caucasian face paint was starting to chip off and was meant to make us think about zombies. But you could argue that it was almost a non-essential shot. A little extra little taste from the director. A little wink and a nod, darkly funny. Lawn jockeys could make any trailer a royal compound, right? Like adding Greek columns to an old row house and turning it into a bed and breakfast.
It reminds me of the first time I drove back by the house I grew up in and saw that the new owner buried wagon wheels at the end of the driveway/ Like they rolled up from after some long journey, wrapped in gingham and a dream, and dug the foundation themselves, when all they did was buy a 40 year old ranch style house and paint over all the memories in western kitsch. The unknowns and barely knowns have been painted over with a new, thick paint of certainty. The color is a colorless gray, and reflects nothing.
Underneath, all the old memories rest on the drywall and frame, preserved like fossils against elements and the passage of time.
[Day book 2026 / Spring 3.21.26
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Poet. Essayist. Fictioner. Steamboat fireman. Bit of a grackle.
Once I drank shot for shot with the devil in a biker bar at the corner of US 68 and the edge of the universe. This was our second meeting. He’d stopped in for a piss break and a beer on his way to meet someone else. That guy will wait, he said when he saw me. They always wait for me. He laughed and made some joke about how he was never the one who insisted on meeting at midnight, and how silly the stories got over time. But it gave him a little flair, a little mystery, he said on his 5th shot of Crown Royal Maple. Gotta leave it to those Canucks. I haven’t tasted shit that good since my nephew did that water to wine trick. Now THERE was talent. The devil shook his head and almost snarled. Then he spat on the floor and it burned through like hot acid. Ungrateful punk.
He smiled again. He had a large toothy smile and dead eyes. He asked me what I wanted. Another shot I said. He laughed. That one’s easy. I don’t stop through here on the regular anymore. He looked around the nearly empty bar. This place used to be lit. More scraps of furniture than furniture, blood and broken glass every night. He winked. And the women! It was almost too easy.
Almost. He looked at me. So. What do you want?
I didn’t have a ready answer. I said something about wanting an interesting life. He laughed. You’re gonna get that anyway, Kid. When I didn’t have an answer he drank his last shot, left cash for my entire tab and a generous tip on the bar. When you think of something, as he stood up, looking much taller than when he came in, say my name. I’ll find you. He laughed. And I won’t make you meet me at midnight in the middle of nowhere, either. He told me he sometimes stopped by to see his third cousin, who lived in a trailer in Aberdeen. He said I might run into him there, too.
[Day book 2026 // Winter 3.18.26]
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Poet. Essayist. Fictioner. Steamboat fireman. Bit of a grackle.
