June 12: 22 Years Later

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It comes around once
a year like any other
with a morning,

noon, afternoon, civil
twilight reminder. The Cuyahoga

River at dusk. A boat docked
in the Flats. An outdoor stage. The opening
act. Guitars. Dance in black

leggings and a royal blue
floral button down baby
doll dress with pockets.

Is it mine? The first
kiss, beer on tap, another kiss,
more beer on tap. Stouffer Inn, magic elevator

carpet. Room service pizza.
Clothes off. Jokes on
all night. Nothing dies

within your reach
again. A child who would be
21 by now is not mine
or yours—is the night’s own.

From Seed to Glass

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Prairie vodka—a beverage
I will never taste. Made in Minnesota.
Property tax—a phrase
I’ll never utter

in Minnesota
or anywhere else. Show tune—
a collection of verses
I will never

memorize. I see rhinoceros—
a warping I will never stop
laughing over.

Organic drunk—
an oxymoron I still remember
how to translate.

Fallout Shelter Signature

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She could write
a song
about writing
a postcard.

It’s been done
before—some from hell.
Some cause the blues
(sender or receiver). Some

are messages no one
is ready
to hear yet. Others
never read. And one

might say it all
along the edge.

My poem “Apprenticeship” has been published in Drunk Monkeys, an online literary journal.

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See the latest installment in poetry section of Drunk Monkeys. 

Track 8

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“The Mississippi River, magnetic engines roar,
sad songs keep the devil away.”
—Jay Farrar (Son Volt, “Angel of the Blues”)

These songs
are homecomings.
One—“Angel of the Blues”—
returns me to the roots of true
saudade.

June 1st

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All those Gemini ex-
lovers—who can remember which one

was born today. December girls
and June boys don’t bring on

the song the way December boys
and September gurls do. Misspellings

on purpose. I forget
which one—they’re all X

now. Let the words and their dates
bounce.

Nine Months

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A child could have been
conceived and born
in the time you’ve been

gone. A child was
conceived and born
in that exact span of days

decades ago—your eldest.
Somewhere there’s a recording
of you singing “Happy Birthday”

to her. And what better reminder
about the cycle of life. You gave me—
your third—the blessing

and curse of counting. Not enough
time has passed
for gratitude to outscore

grief. And yet today’s celebration
of my sister brings us closer
to evening the score.

Compression

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The shortest
distance between
two images
is a poem.

The shortest distance
between two thoughts
is a poem.

The shortest distance between
two emotions is a poem.

The
shortest
distance
between
two
cities
is
a
poem.

The shortest distance between two strangers is a poem.

The shortest distance
between two designer
putt-putt golf
holes is a poem.

Distance between—a poem.
Nothing straight will do.