POEM: “Fight Club Redux”

Photo by cottonbro on Pexels.com
Fight Club Redux”
--aka “it’s your own damn fault if it’s spoiled; the movie’s been out for ages”

in the darkness, the grass glitters 
with crystallized condensation
when i walk outside to let 
my dog make her mark, as though 
the stars vaguely luminescent 
in their spheres had fallen to earth 
frozen, their heat lost to predawn chill

later i watch Fight Club for the 
n-th time, catch myself thinking 
how very very nice it would be 
to have a friend like Tyler to hang 
around with on shitty nights in 
a shitty house, or sharing drinks in
a shitty bar, but without the assault
--gut punched by metaphor alone

imagine a friend, even imaginary,
that’s always there through thick, through thin-
ning nights and thinning hair,
trading jokes and insults and 
guttural laughter no matter 
how many times they’ve heard each 
clever wordplay,  each dumb pun

someone who listens--does not simply wait
for your part of each conversation 
to end, someone like Bob to hug you
with his big-ass bitch tits, or Tyler
with his right hook to greet you. 
3D Virtual Reality’s 
got nothing on the brain. We can make 
ourselves believe, we make ourselves 
believe anything - - - -

even that the stars glistening 
in the darkened blades of grass 
are beautiful despite my canine’s warmly 
flowing contribution melting 
them before their time, readying 
them for a sun they will never 
see just beyond that horizon.



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*I recently rewatched Fight Club, and though it’s not exactly a Halloween-themed movie, I thought it was close enough for today’s post. Happy Halloween! 

If you’d like to read about my progress and plans for this year, as well as craft tips, you can subscribe to my Patreon and support my work for just $1 a month! Until next time, stay safe and well, and read often!
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POEM: “scavengers”

Photo by Alexey Demidov on Pexels.com
scavengers

amid blackened skulls
crushed beneath metal monsters
the dirge of mankind howls
beneath the laser blasts
plastique blows apart
the enemies of man

while remnants harvest
buried treasures of the lost
metal can be reforged
machine parts repaired
military weapons
a much sought boon

but the sweetest find of all
hides beneath charred remains
a blackened wood door
opens a hole into earth
where a root cellar cache
lies empty of all save one

preserving a sweetness
most will never know


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*inspired by Terminator

Next Friday, I’ll also post on my Patreon.  If you’d like to read about my progress and plans for this year, as well as craft tips, you can subscribe to my Patreon and support my work for just $1 a month! Until next time, stay safe and well, and read often!

POEM: “The Unsigned Letter”





Photo by George Milton on Pexels.com
The Unsigned Letter”

“No need to sign since I give it her myself”
the lie you told, hiding your true feelings
in the pocket nearest your beating heart

she described you perfectly yet you saw no hope, 
seeing beauty everywhere but in yourself,
you lie concealed behind another’s handsome face,
a poet’s exercise excuses your tear-stained words

divinity of form for a form poet: why can’t you see 
the truth of yourself? more than a poem composed,
you are the sonnet that creates itself.

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Thanks for stopping by my blog. Check out my Patreon for more of my writing! 

I’m thrilled to announce I’ll be reading selections from my book, An Optimist’s Journal of the End of Days and Other Stories, at Barberton Library on Saturday, September 11th at 2pm!  I will also be selling and signing copies of the book for those who are interested.

In the meantime, stay safe, stay well, and read often!

*inspired by Edmond Rostand’s Cyrano de Bergerac.

POEM: “She Who Was the Helmet Maker’s Once-Beautiful Wife”

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She Who Was the Helmet Maker's Once-Beautiful Wife"

you didn't know what awaited you
when you began the long trek to see your son
bare feet and fallen arches old bones aching
with miles of marching your final journey
all for one more glimpse of your boy
become a man

why bare yourself for the artist's art?
how much more could you have to give?
the tragedy of your worn form outlives your mortality,
the young girl you were forever trapped in iron gray.





*Rodin’s model for She Who Was the Helmet Maker’s Once-Beautiful Wife was the mother of one of his male models. The photo I used reminded me of a younger version of Rodin’s model, since I was unable to obtain permission for an image of the original sculpture. You can find an image of Rodin’s masterpiece here.