2:13

The coffee maker says
it is 2:13
which doesn’t seem
true
but, perhaps
I will go back to bed anyway

reflections on Last Vegas
Re:Invent, 2025

From the moment I
emerge from the A321 at Harry Reid,
into the Fourth Circle of the Inferno,
the auditory assault commences.

Bells and klaxons accompanied by
leering show girls and roaring dragons.

There is so much to be won!
Perhaps not by you.

I, the reluctant Candide,
running the auto da fé
for listening to the heresy of Pangloss:
This year will be fun!

I had breakfast this morning
at a lovely French café
at the base of an ersatz Eiffel,
the waiter shouting
from a few centimeters away
to enquire how I would
desire mes oeufs.
I yelled back that over easy would be
magnifique.

The cacophany is constant
the bells, bells, bells, bells
the clamor and the clangor of the bells!

While I desire, in the words of James Kirkup,
the sanctuary of the guestroom
where the bedlam is muffled,
but still unremitting.

Soon I must emerge, and go to work,
incredulous, as each year
that these throngs come here
voluntarily.

Which Glen
(Banners, Lexington, KY)

They can never remember which Glen —
fiddich or livet
But they know it’s one of those,
and that when Maria’s order comes in
that’s for me.

Maybe some day they’ll remember my name
and possibly even which Glen
but this is a good start.

I conduct my daily life
as I always have:
The work in front of me,
followed by
what’s next.

Powerful men with no regard
for anything
but their own power
change the world,
ignore decency and kindness

but I must
answer this email,
file this expense report,
wipe up this spill

Home Again

2024/04/09, Hanoi, remembering Beaver Place Road

“If you lived here
you’d be home now”,
the sign read.

But I did,
and I wasn’t,
for all those years.

Temporary storage for
my things, my dreams.

A place to sleep
(perchance to dream)

More home when
you were there.
Otherwise just a
shelter,

the trains marking the hours
through the dark nights
waiting for it to be
home again.

Ploughed Fields by Van Gogh

I stopped in Amsterdam
on the way to Edinburgh
expressly to see you.

Took the flight
with the absurdly long layover
so I could
take the train to Centraal
and walk the streets,
cross the canals,
smell the flowers,

to where you waited
among the sunflowers
and almond blossoms,

around the corner from
Paul’s room.

You drive a black horse,
a white horse,
across the Poughed Fields
while Vincent
paints you.

Did you talk to him?
Did you wonder what that
strange Parisian was doing?

But …
apparently I was supposed to buy a ticket
online.

So I’ll have to ask you
all these questions
another time.

Flow

or …

Contemplation on the difficulty of writing poetry on demand

Words flow like …
What doesn’t flow?

Cliche: Molasses

More imaginative …

Traffic on circle 4 at
about 5:38
on a Thursday
when you just want
to get home

Like …

Honey left on the shelf
for a few years
until rediscovered as part
of a whiskey sour recipe found on Reddit
then set in hot water
to slowly
return to the right
golden hue – no more
sugar crystals

Flow like …

that last drop
of Grey Poupon
clinging to the corner
just out of reach of the spoon
when I just need
a little more for my sandwich

The words flow

Stream of Conscious

July 4
S-Tree Campground
Sand Gap, Kentucky

Under the emerald canopy
time stretches
like salt water taffy

Attenuates

Funny word, that, attenuate
At Ten You Ate
Seems longer ago

I make a note
to look up attenuate
and make sure I’m
using it correctly

Working from http://www.agodon.com/uploads/2/9/4/3/2943768/writing_prompts_by_kelli_russell_agodon.pdf  for daily writing prompts, here’s day 1.

The prompt: 1. Grab the closest book. Go to page 29. Write down 10 words that catch your eye. Use 7 of words in a poem. For extra credit, have 4 of them appear at the end of a line.

Unbroken

High Bridge Road, Some time in September, 1991

I sit quietly
in the middle of the deserted field
the tick of the metal cooling
the moment frozen,
silent

Silence amplified
to the point of being
almost deafening.

The engine block steams
as the toxic fluids
spill on the grass,
the anger drains away

The telephone pole, upright,
shorn off
inches from the ground
sways gently, suspended from the wires
conversations uninterrupted

Yesterday was simpler
It usually is

But you cannot go back
to the unbroken,
the unwounded,
put the oil back in the pan

So, I sit
waiting
waiting for the past to be
unbroken
waiting for the future
to come slamming back,
as the engine cools,
the coolant seeps into the soil