September Pines

The tree atop what we once considered “our” little hill has started to die. The limbs are bare; the branches have all turned brittle. Broken remnants litter the ground. The trunk is suffering. But it used to be a happy place. That agreed upon spot where two lovers used to meet. Down along the river running Grand in the springtime of our romance. That little park strip, just on the Turner side of better gardens. The one filled with fragrant roses. And the brighter freshments never destined to endure. But that was in the before time. Back when summer warmth teased out natural glories. And allowed us the simple joy of actually feeling alive. I remember clearly the race towards that little hill. And just how …

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September Corn

Sunday drunk in Dewitt. Again. Not exactly sure why that keeps fucking happening. Or what triggers the urge to consume liquid stupidity to the point that the voices actually dim. And the panic fades. Even if it’s just for a heartbeat of a Clinton County moment. I never intend for it to happen.   It just does. Because there I was again. Closing down the same Old Town haunts. Chatting up different ghosts, while pounding down the Sunday rounds. Embracing the A.B.V. of it all. Because there is fuck all else to do here in the Mittened wasteland. At least when there aren’t tin monsters to fight. And the last of lost weekend hours yawn in a 517 dial tone nothingness. Ripping raw down around Stoll Road. …

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Shot Glass 🦊

It admittedly didn’t take long to slip back into the familiarity of old habits. A pocketful of hours into the 517 and I was back on a familiar rise. Where the lights from a mean city twinkle down on dirty water. Not the welcoming baptismal I anticipated. But it is the one I guess we deserved. Because we both lied. I realize that. It was just in different ways. And to very different people. Some lies were so big, the charm of their gravity pulled me from the dirty alleyways of Wayne’s City. All the way up to nowhere fucking Michigan. And when that attraction broke, I spun out inside the barreled sprawl of a strange Capital City.  Running feral, I could only capitalize on the …

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A Harvest of Letters

It was a road trip steeped in letters.  Reflective letters on highway signs. And stunted exit markers. Digital letters blinking on the dash; fictional letters winking inside my head. Letters carried inside a battered typewriter case. And in my back pocket.  Some were meant for outright dismissal. Especially the hypothetical ones. The ones yet to be written were better off being cheerfully ignored. Because words only seem to cause chaos these days. And I’m getting a little too old for those kinds of literary shenanigans. Other letters were destined for a final delivery. Into the embrace of the coal-barged currents of the mighty Ohio. The ones carefully bundled up in a bright red ribbon. Because they deserved a little recognition. And a cheery reward after having …

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Canis Lupus

The initial compulsion was to comfort. Strong arms, battered from the bruising battles against tin monsters, wrapped protectively around the softness of her vulnerability. Held the tenderness of her hurt right against a heart well-versed in the peculiarities of that fatally familiar storyline. And it was difficult to let her go. The smell of her hair reminded me of Irish innocence; the weight of restrained tears crushed the brittle skeletons of hopeful expectations. The ones promising better outcomes. Because everything new is always old again. And she was caught hard in the hopelessness of that contradiction. I wanted to protect her. And champion the cause of her more gentle angels. Because I have known that hurt; I have lived that story. Those experiences branded me deep. …

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Graduation

If they only knew the truth.  Because it’s always the same fucking thing.  “I love the writing!” “You definitely have talent.” “Is any of your work about me?” Fleeting praise I once admittedly loved. But that now makes my stomach churn. Because it’s just superficial flattery pushing a jet-blasted brain into recoil mode. More hollow compliments masterfully baiting all the caged demons to collapse into their liquid howls of disgust. It makes me want to rage and lash out. Scream the indignity of my discursive curse. And ultimately embrace the anonymity of my more vulpes nature. Because no one ever fucking acknowledges the cost. Or the exhausting burden of investment required to put something meaningful on paper—I am terrified of a blank page.  Because it’s too …

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Clip Show

“Have a good weekend!” they said, shuffling out.  But like always, that sentiment wasn’t really meant for me.  Because it was a superfluous holiday. An unappreciated recess tacked on to the tail end of a shortened week. A week spent soaking more blue into thrifted collars, while all around bigger engines whined and spooled white smoke. An echo of a day left to wander unsupervised. And, unappreciated. Watching the people all scurry and shuffle. Packing their bags for better places. The ones I am never destined to see.   The summer race was on.   The race to escape the stink of The City. And to chase down the refreshment promised by the U.P. That sprawl of a Mittened peninsula, jutting out into colder water. But I was …

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Letters

I thought about writing a letter tonight.  But I am admittedly a little afraid to actually know her. It has honestly been a minute since I have tortured someone with my rambling correspondence; I feel out of practice. Out of touch with more gentle thoughts; out of time to the rhythm of all these 517 hearts. I find myself terrified of letters. Probably because it’s only been a little over a month now. And I haven’t yet found the courage to read the last one I received. The one that came at me hard on that awful, and beautiful, Wayne’s City night. But it’s still right there.  That letter is still tucked away, unopened, inside a locked typewriter case. The vintage companion that has traveled with …

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500 Mile Drive

I still think about that drive. The tenacity of those Tennessee roadside concessions. The ones fueling those dirty dashboard confessions; the ones screaming at a Pigeon Ford quickly evaporating in a smoky rearview mirror. Because I never had the opportunity to properly explain myself. I just remember Knoxville coffee punching hard against softer insides. And how that burn helped to round out the sharpness of those elevated curves. And smooth the stark indignity of unused emergency runaway ramps. The ones scratched and clawed into an unnamed mountain’s downward slope. Cities were on fire then. It felt like the whole world, locked down and suffering, was about to collapse. Which I thought was fucking hilarious. Because I was tired of the abuse. And wanted to break free …

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Time

Time is such a weird thing. And 18 months is the current manifestation of that peculiarity. It simultaneously seems like both a lifetime, and the blink of brown eyes crying in an Indiana kitchen. 547 some days. A whisper over 13,000 hours.   But even that isn’t a guarantee. Because I learned a long time ago to never trust the white-coated math. In a way, I guess it makes sense. Because even our arrival times are imprecise. So why should our departure dates be any different? Born into broken water, we leave amongst the tears of others. Adhering to some imprecise system. One based on patterns I’m not sure my pickled monkey brain will ever comprehend. Because I can barely be trusted unsupervised with a tube of …

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