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.
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]
Follow this blog on Mastodon or the Fediverse to receive updates directly in your feed.
Poet. Essayist. Fictioner. Steamboat fireman. Bit of a grackle.
The itinerant rooster two yards over shows no interest in Easter eggs and does not seem inclined towards bunnies of any kind.
Tend to the wish flowers and john quills before the lawn mower parts arrive with the inevitability of summer.
