it’s done

after 3 hundred
and sixty-five days
and 3 hundred and
sixty-five poems
I can call this
project done.
3 hundred and
sixty-five poems.
some were good,
some will do,
and some might as
well be tobacco
stains on an
otherwise clean
button down.

not much has
changed in the
last 3 hundred
and sixty-five
days and 3 hundred
and sixty-five
poems. I’m still
running the race,
I got the same
lovely girl (and that
is good),
my finger nails
and toe nails still
need regular
cutting so that
means I’m still
growing inside too.

what will happen
to these poems now?
what will the man say?

I thank all the help
I had along the way
from the greats, Padgett,
Pastan, Garcia, Cook,
Lehman, and of course
Hank.

the poems are me,
but the poems
are also the poems.
the poems are they.
maybe they’ll
do something
on their own, now
that they’re free of
my awkward
invasive intellect.
I wish them the best.

as for me,
maybe I’ll
write a poem here
and there if the
moment strikes,
maybe I won’t,
mostly I’ll
probably just keep
stretching myself,
seeing how close
I can come to that
infinite edge.

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April sickness

the

conspicuous

strangler

that slowly

reached inside and

choked progressive

action.

I watched

it

happen.


rejection

that thing that puts a sudden
heavy weight in your
hands and coerces you to carry it.
that thing that sends
us flailing, detached, like
a pair of underwear that escaped
the pins of the clothes line now
snagged on a tree branch.

the trail that ends
before the map in your
hand indicates, you stop,
confounded, head panning.
go back? but we’ve come this far.

and that immediate
need to see it rectified,
to crab walk away from it,
see it wiped clean, like a failed
thief who left fingerprints,
no evidence of existence.


the war

it was

    a surprise attack.

during the night

    snow accumulated on the ground.

it was April and

    Spring had lost this battle.

cardinal

he sat on the
branch in the
middle of the
bare tree, like
the match that
sets kindling
aflame.

this poem
is the photo of
the cardinal I
could not get
because he
departed before
I could.

perhaps he
wished to
remain
ephemeral.

would he
feel violated
or defeated
by the
existence
of this poem?

did he mean
to be captured in
words instead of
images so more
thoughts were
dedicated to him?


Er

“er” is a funny sounding
syllable. and when it’s
spelled U-R it’s even
funnier. like the word
“yogurt”. “yogurt” is a
funny sounding word.
but when the sound is
spelled O-R, like in
“work”, it’s not really
funny at all. but if you
can rhyme “work” with
another funny sounding
“er” word they can both
become funny, like “shirk
your work”. “Dirk” is a
funny name, but “Kirk” is
not. “lurk” and “lurch”
are funny words, but “curt”
and “church” are not.
hmm. maybe I was wrong
about “er”. maybe “er”
is only funny if someone
decides it is funny. go
say “spurt” or “slurp” in a
crowd. see who laughs.


sky

the sky is dressed
for mourning
and doesn’t care
who knows it.

the wind will not
be ignored,
circumventing
the numerous layers.

but the birds cry
convivially,
unaffected by their
surroundings.
they don’t
need sun
to shine.