Featherhood

An American robin.

Randy robin redbreast

running

repeatedly

into the plate glass door

as if looking for a way in.

I worry about today’s youth:

the instinct

above all else

this drive 

to procreate

when 

for the life of me

circling back around

cannot recall the pros

only to be found

in prose.

Are you and I

birds of a feather

having already built this nest

just 

as concussed

beating my brains

looking

for a way out.

B-Side

when the songs you sing

have someone else’s lovebites on them

you are flush, burning:

though not from passion,

but embarrassment.

this here whores den

you rail against,

frequent.

not only as a customer

but as proprietor 

you write the checks

your saddle sore

ass 

can’t cash.

moseying down

poking ‘round

back stair

fire escape.

hell,

throes of passion

deep breaths

lying 

in the bed you’ve made.

you sleep the sleep

of death.

you know your guilt.

Autumn’s Fall

feel

the thrum

of a ruffed grouse

mating call

as it 

beats

beneath my breastbone

asking after me.

ruffled my feathers, too.

***

pine boughs

like a lover’s caress

feather

down

my back.

spent, red

bed

of needles

whispering promises

of the green winter to come.

***

foliage 

fanning flames

burn orange, scarlet, yellow

screaming

peals of atomic thunder

lick

‘cross the ridge.

On Being A Tugboat

Been tryyyyying to make me a schedule during this pandemic with all the ups and downs. This gives me some hope.

BREVITY's Nonfiction Blog

By Kirsten Voris

I was going to let this anniversary go unacknowledged.

I must have known it was a big deal. I wrote it in my calendar. One year out. July 26th, the day I took the decision to sit down for a specific amount of time, on specific days every week, to write. No matter how I felt or what else was going on.

Guess what?

For one solid year I have been sitting down, for a specific amount of time, on specific days of the week to write.

I wasn’t going to mention it. But that’s just false modesty. And feeling shy about outing yourself is counterproductive when you’re in the business of writing personal essays.

You might be wondering how I did it.

I had some help. From the Tucson Writer’s Table. What we do, is write. For two hours. Together. At a table. Every Monday. After…

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What’s Donne Is Done

What’s Donne is Done

 

John Donne is done.

 

Perhaps

buried alive

a poet 

who didn’t

quite

know it.

 

The denouement 

rock 

flawed

headstone

to be made known

where he lie

yet in all fiction

we unearth

clods of truth.

 

The bell’s final peal

tolled for he.

 

Pavlov’s coffin:

measured 

in dog years.

Schroedinger’s casket:

nine lives.

 

Alone, we all must

answer half-hearted riddles

dig our own holes

with the rest

a dirt nap

spooning 

Mistress Death

the other half of the coin

such is life.IMG_20200701_140650

Palaver Jaw

The summer solstice

perches

atop the highest

spot

in the sky.

Scavenger

spies

its carrion crawl

across the horizon

of the porch.

Zorched

in the heat

the months tumble by, dry

husks.

Empty days

quarantining

against the unseen, 

enemy

such is age.

The deliberate 

forgetfulness

playing games

with growing shadows

as our days 

linger 

longer.

 

We rock here, 

spittle

dripping 

from our chins,

the curvature

teetering back and forth

between

past 

and present,

a see-saw

for us old-timers

set

in our ways

from remembering

why we came out here in the first place.

The Tangled Interwebs We Weave

I am but an insect
toiling away
at social media
a fly

ho
     ver
ing

about the desecrated bodies
a spoiled
movable feast
they’ve laid out for us
in the heat of the moment
the day
whatever is
the latest drama
they can cook up.

Caught in this kitchen
unable to stand the heat
thmp
thmp
thmp
against a window
the pane but a screen
yet the mesh suffocating
circulated air of
heavy
breathing pleading
for an escape
asking the same masters
for answers
with productivity apps
and fitness trackers
winging it, buzzed
just enough to feel good about ourselves
flitting to another pile of shit.

 

Man Voyage VI: New England

Always such a nice time with my partner-in-crime.

The Aging Cynic

In 2016 I was winding down Man Voyage IV with my best pal and Echo & Sway comrade, Jared A. Conti AKA The Oracular Beard in the upper reaches of New York’s Finger Lakes.  We were chatting at length on the last stop of our three day beer & brewery pilgrimage with a knowledgeable server at Genesee’s Thirsty Pug Craft Beer Market when he wholeheartedly recommended, nay commanded us where to go next: Vermont.  

His claims that Vermont breweries were churning out some of the best beers in the country weren’t entirely unfamiliar to us.  Any craft beer drinker worth his/her weight in IBUs knows The Alchemist Brewery’s Heady Topper is one of the most highly rated & sought after IPAs on the market, and it more than lived up to the hype when a friend gifted us a few cans years ago.  My wife & I received a…

View original post 5,007 more words

Ten dollars and a direction

she relays to me

that I’m odd

(not that I haven’t heard that before)

and that I’ll always

be that way

(yah, I’ve heard that too)

 

and this is why

she likes that chapter:

some steamy romance

going nowhere

because it’s not yet written

or maybe

the plot

dried up

as with my tears

 

accusing fingers

holding your place

between

the part I played

and the mock-up

of a man riding in on a white stallion

saving you

from God knows what

 

open hand offering, reaching

out to you,

and to look upon

you, your favorite

of all the pretty-boy

poster smiles

long, stately mane

flowing in the breeze,

my wizardly ways

which have seen

the world

 

and the knowledge

that this too shall pass.

 

Art credit: Harrison Dale Conti, age 4
“The sun and Daddy at Gumpy and Nini’s”