The Splits

Mine was a young silence
Hers was an old knock on the door

We had a neon floor
The roof was made of islands

An old stink bug lay on the mantle
Innocuous as risotto,
A thank you note
Time-stamped in the mail

With three green birds
She welcomed me back
To where we were going

Next song, seven flowers
Best seat, eight whales

Why did I even care
About the risotto,
The order of things,
Whether the rice was al dente?

I'd love to get that angst back
I'd love to begin again in an empty dish

As if I could blow into my hand
To remove the nothing
That was already there

Memory Foam

It is broken.  Does it require of me that I buy a new spacer kit?  What if I counter-offer with a brand new ball assembly?

The right answer ran between the left guard and the left tackle, to the house.

I am from Illinois but I live in Missouri.  This does not make me anxious.  I do not spend an hour a day imagining the explanations I will offer as justification when someone asks me, "What are you doing here?"  Or says, in the pejorative, "Go back to your Land of Lincoln..."

Full story here...

Observations, Recent and Uncatalogued


I was struck by the rightness of a Morandi still life, leading me to believe (again) I could paint something similar, or should try in any case.  Are my old oils still any good?  Am I better with either color or depth?


"There's a dead branch out there," she said, pointing out the window.

"You dissembler," he said, raising a knee and tapping it with the opposite hand.  Then raising the other knee, tapping it with the other hand.  "These are my new calisthenics," he said.

Full story here...

A Long Way from Mulch

Her naked foot rubs against
     the unborn blue of the mattress.
A tiny pair of socks airs out
     beneath the open-sky window.
Someone has gone running—
     but not very far, and not very hard.

The room might not be so big.
     They haven’t slept in it since
they hung his latest painting.
     It’s been too hot.
He could close the window, yes.
     But that wouldn’t keep
the dog from barking
     into all corners of the night.

It doesn’t matter,
     he doesn’t need sleep—
he is sure of it. Yet,
     he closes his eyes each night,
plays the game anyway;
     thinks invariably about
weather patterns, or
     his high school graduation.
Sometimes he just listens
     to what the house has to say.

Gasping, she awakes to the smell of him;
     rolls over and asks,
“What are you doing?”
     He stops breathing.
By morning she will have forgotten
     ever asking the question.