a crowded cafe, somewhere

what do you think he’s waiting for

one whispered to the other

leaning in e-ver-so-slightly

over the table the two shared.

the one who had not spoken

placed his glass down and he squinted

as if reading the man’s posture

as words written on a page.

perhaps began the second man

now whis-per-ing to the first

it is not ‘what’ but ‘whom.’

author ernest in frustration

today, i started at least six poems

but i hated all of them so i

ripped them from the typewriter

balled them rather violently

and flung them into the waste bin

before downing the rest of my gin and tonic

ok, fine, so i

highlighted all of the text

and pressed delete

and took a sip of filtered water my office provides.

oh, what heartbreak!

three poems written on a sunday

‘surely, someone was president, right?’

the year was 1904

and i don’t have a damn clue

what happened or why it did.

* * *

geometry of sorts

if i draw a straight line

one, i’d need a ruler or

straight edge, because

my artistic talent is rather lacking

from me to you

two, i’d need you to remain

rather still which i don’t see happening

as you move and shake like the wind

will you still be there

when my straight line

i guess it would be a segment

as a line from me to you

would not be infinite

though i hope to spend

forever with you

well, of course

that’s also a metaphor

‘cause i’m already 33

so let’s forgive technicalities

becomes the point

that was point a to b

and is now the point

and very close space shared

by you and me?

* * *

claw marks on drywall

i’m worried there might be wolves in the house

i’ve noticed clusters of padded prints in the kitchen

and claw marks on the drywall in the pantry

just above the cereal i eat for morning breakfast.


bird on a field

an older man – say mid 60’s – stopped his bicycle, orange vest glittering in summer afternoon sun, quirked a helmeted-head and asked,

‘why you flippin’ them tires?’

shirtless and drenched and gasping rather gracelessly for air, my hands clawing the fabric of my shorts on bent knees as i gathered myself, i responded with a squint and,


unfazed, the man re-asked his question,

‘why you flippin’ them tires?’

he gestured to the pull-up bars between us and asked,

‘why don’t you play on them bars?’

i heard him clearly this time and was upright and walking towards him and realized

i did not have a single answer that made any more sense than the other as to why i was flipping tires in 90 degree heat on a sun-soaked field by myself.

and i realized then how absurd this looks and that I’m working muscle groups i could work indoors and that i actually don’t need to work out at all or this hard at least and that i need to pee and I’m tired and it’s hot and

i smiled and said,

‘it feels right.

i dunno,

it’s just kinda fun.’

the man on a bicycle in an orange vest considered this, lied politely saying, ‘maybe I’ll try it one day,’ and rode off.

i drank some water that was hot because it’s hot and i forgot to put my bottle in the shade, typed this on my phone, and then flipped that tire a few more times because

why not?