We who are poets know that the reason for a poem is not disclosed until after the poem exists.
You will not remember me.
And I will not remember...
How to Keep It Real When Everything Has Gone Wrong
Ladies and gentlemen, party people and displaced souls,
we’re now reluctant refugees of a scratch-and-dent world.
This moment would mimic countless others we’ve squandered
were it not for this impromptu sermon. We should know better
than to be reckless with the truth. Honesty is careless by nature,
a master of bad timing, a deadbeat father repeating his litany
of stillborn promises. You...
“Every word was once a poem”. Every poem was once an experiment. I’m a pragmatic man. I’m a test pilot flying a fountain pen. Testing the limits of honesty. I was going to begin by saying “watch me pull a rabbit out of a hat” but that’s the sort of malarkey I’m trying to avoid, the stiff collar, cleverness of prose (should I apologize?).
There’s a theory that professes honesty is a requirement of writing. Poppycock! I’m being impetuous. I’ll test this theory with three...
Prayer for My New Daughter
After Yeats, and inspired by an attack on transgender students using a “bathroom with urinals” at a college in the northeastern US.
A soul in chrysalis, in first agonized molt,
must choose: LADIES, or MENS.
For some—for you—these rooms are fraught,
an open field...
“Brief History of Midwestern Civilization” clearly has its origins in nostalgia and memories of my beloved grandfather, who ran a series of hatcheries in central Illinois, the last in tiny Graymont, ten miles from the farm I grew up on. The warmth of those memories is complicated (I hope) by my adult awareness that what seemed a mundane, sometimes boring, arduous life on the prairie, filled with hard work and smelly chickens, was also quite secure and privileged...