Someone suggested I share a few poems via Substack. Here are two:
Didn’t see anyone until Vinemont.
Lots of cars and three men with rifles,
speaking what sounded like Russian.
But I don’t know which region.
There was a man with a penis-tipped head
at the baseball diamond,
and a man walking his dog
on Camila's old street.
I took a stick and wrote
some shit in the mud.
It was gone this evening.
The stick is down the river.
Robins sing in the twilight.
Night comes later every time.
We walk in the moonlight.
Break off at Blow's Landing.
Alone.
My moonlit path
My foliage overflowing
Your bursts and your patter
Extend beyond knowing
Like some sorry archeologist,
I search for clues
Tucked hither and hide
In the day’s residues
My probes, my missives,
My eccentric dispatches
They’re strange, I grant you
Not what usually catches
In blank silence
I again reach out
A branch extended
Trembling with doubt
To meet my sorry effort
Is, well, nothing at all
Not a soul acknowledges
My distant, pathetic call
The wind at the window
Brings welcome relief
From sleeplessness
That nocturnal thief
Of our discontents
I hear but little
Tis no wonder how
I can lie here and giggle