I feel like a word drunk boxer
not wrung out, not yet
standing on the corner
in the river town setting sun.
All my favorite poets
carry a pugilist’s soul
and I am grateful
mine is too.
[Daybook 2026 // Spring 4.10.26]
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Poet. Essayist. Fictioner. Steamboat fireman. Bit of a grackle.
4.7.26
What then what?
Some mornings
all there is
is rage and them
that lit the fire
claim
they will not
own it
instead
they cry
calling themselves
burn victims.
4.8.26
I dreamt of my grandparent’s house on Bantam last night. My daughter and my wife were talking about moving in and who would take the master bedroom. In a dream state, the house is always smaller than I remember and I always take note of it, and I think about the large attic that was its own, overpacked and underexplored continent. I think to remind them about the central vacuum system and how the guest bedroom was an uncomfortable flotsam of furniture one of them will want to redecorate. The old horse barn, the large field, the woods I explored when I was growing up feel like distant lands and the front windows of the house are covered, like they’re boarded up on the outside except for a sliver of light. I wonder if the creek still runs through and if the walnut and apple trees still fruit on schedule. They are talking around me and I realize they are not aware I think I’m dreaming.
[Daybook 2026 // Spring 4.7-4.8-26]
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Poet. Essayist. Fictioner. Steamboat fireman. Bit of a grackle.
I hear a heavy truck on the street and dread that the onion grass has mechanized and is becoming aggressive.
It’s the day after Easter and I pray again that the earth will take itself back sooner and save me from yard work,
the way I remember, from when I was a kid, the End Timers praying for the bombs to fall
and justify their faith to the poor neighborhoods in town
where the couches burned when the basketball game went the wrong way.
[Daybook 2026 // Spring 4.6.26]
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Poet. Essayist. Fictioner. Steamboat fireman. Bit of a grackle.
