Experience at the Restaurant

(of mother)

A beer and in front of me:
No visible sign of shame
in the shitty restaurant; oh
what does this suppose to mean?

I am all questions answered
unable to ask for the simple explanation
I already know.

I too give up,
and slowly sarcasm
and vacuous wit pour
into my hollow throbbing chest.


At dusk on certain evenings

you will, quite unexpectedly, come

to an easy halt and, with the warm ground teasing your soles,

you’ll gaze vaguely

upon nothing in particular.

Pleasant fire flying, the warm

night air apparent, your skin smooth;

the linen strips, not clinging

but resting upon bronzed shoulder.

Look out,

and see nothing.

With welcoming eyes, rest.

Insects do not trace 'cross the brow

their giddy calendars.

Theirs are days yellow marked,

the buttercups their reminders.

Look out,

and, alone, be

thankful for what we share

with them (down there).

Close your eyes

and inherit all they’ve.

On certain evenings, I’ve heard,

on some distant peer,

a band plays simple, lovely things,

and wafting down to you,

drops like honeyed breeze,

sweet life.

On this Place

This is a poem about my experience at TJ that I've just drafted for a scholarship contest. It's always difficult for me to write when I can't simply follow my mind's whims, but this is what I've got. Some of the typesetting, especially around the few phrases in parentheses, doesn't show up well in this format, so excuse those.

Years ago, I looked

forward; towards

something I, willingly,

could not grasp.

Day and night

were not unsimilar,

then; I would slowly push

my way – clearing the air –

each day parting opaquely,

an unknowing sweat:

the patina that, so slowly,

brought clarity: the surface,

my brow bent low.

Time passed and

conservatively I came to –

(understanding.) My fingers,

guided by those earnest hands that

with great patience, teach.

Then, measurement was my

chief concern: a ceaseless procession

of fact, dense with indifferent subtlety, passed

before me, nearsighted.

I worked to understand,

to share in the apparent pleasure

of knowledge – that

(apparent) fount of good stories

and warmly lit futures well-

told years from now.

And yet, a certain confusion

persisted: a liberal absence of sense;

Beyond each opaque day, there lied

more than patient hand could convey.

Time passed

(and) slowly, my urge to measure the world,

to sum things up, to

reduce down to the essentially empty

an experience that I had barely begun to grasp,

faded from my thoughts.

Then, for the first time

truly, I was free.

Each passing day brought new

the bounties of this truth which,

only by accident, I had found.

At first, thereafter,

I was angry.

Why hadn’t those patient hands,

handed to me the

right to be free of worry?

Why was such importance placed

on the facts of life, the means to ends,

that, without allegory, without

the shadows they cast upon

the plain things of day and night,

lost all meaning.

Slowly, though, I was

but simple relief.

Time, as always, passed and

at Time’s insistence,

I turned up my softening gaze and

with a new appreciation

faced those people: real people,

who spent their days

guiding the many hands of youth.

I saw then their faces:

brows down, the sweat

of a tired man or woman

lending glory to the

otherwise meek;

a pride too, there,

an inimitable sense of pride,

restrained by necessary distance:

the gap between mother and child grown.

I saw then their faces and

saw myself.

Surely this: this recognition

of our inherent similarity,

this undeniable empathy:

a shared existence and

appreciation thereof;

Surely this: lessons of history,

of math and science, of music, of all

maginable places: all equally

lessons of our time and of each-other.

Surely this base significance,

this foundation against which

everything has meaning,

s the greatest thing of which

I have, here, learned.

In my everyday, I extoll

this truth; I am

thankful to this place, to

the many hands, that

with great patience, guided

my trembling fingers to grasp

that which I, alone,

had to learn.

another poem

You can tell when the speaker man has gone to get a sandwich,
You can, by the slightly changed sound of his voice,
the low scratch of crumb on lip amplified
by microphone. 

Yesterday was Today All Over Again

yesterday was today all over again:

The change that
from surrender
weeps salted tears
is December's gift;

for, in the cold
we've but ourselves
and each other's yesterdays'
papers and thoughts.

And our
our own warmth,
our fear,
our children left
in warm sweaters
alone –
their little hands clutched
at their sides…

a fire
from which to learn
to dry our eyes.

And then,
even in absence of
icy paths forged
crossed the cheek,

we're cold
for we've but ourselves
and yesterday was today all over again.

Gravity (In the midst of wreckage)

In the midst of wreckage:
ghostly shells
in and out of focus,
smoke moving
towards center

I grin – and wide –
as we sit
and watch gravity
do its work
and planets collide

and warm suns become distant
embers crossing the skies.
Great behemoths
plunge into the lands
we grew up with;
Oceans curve under the
waiting down, down
to the last second…

Primal things are afoot,
and yet we are each 
firmly grounded:
our feet planted
as worlds collide.

The first post.

Hello all. I'm excited to have a place with which to share my writing. You can expect to find stories, poems, and papers  here as well as my general thoughts. I can not guarantee that I will be vigilant in my posting, though I hope I shall. Stay tuned, though; you might just find something you like.