11 Years and Counting

This day
encapsulates
my endless gratitude
for each moment I get to live
sober.

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From Seed to Glass

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.

200 Days (or Spirit Varnish)

All the world’s
an ice rink
this morning before

the sun (no one can see
through freezing rain
and fear) fully rises. Where

did it go
when these bones began
to break and drop

to the lacquered
ground? Whose bones
will replace those
missing from this new silence?

Wind Chill Civil Dawn

Beautiful to watch
from a well-sealed
window. Nothing

gets taken
for granted. Feels like

a drop
in ambient thought.
The essential reveals

itself against a pale blue
cloudless sky. Another day

where hope just might burst
through burns awake
to break convection’s hold.

They Call It Prohibition

I dream of sipping espresso
from a tiny ceramic cup
in a hotel bar high
above the streets
and skyway. And I tower
over a city that dreams
bigger than it looks. They call it
Prohibition—it’s not illegal
for an alcoholic
to recover the view.