An Ocean Lost At Sea

When life was a breeze
My mind flowed like an ocean
Of rivers and streams
Each thought in my head
Reflecting like a blue moonbeam
On the surface of a lucid dream

Until in a burst of madness
The rivers in my mind
Split at the streams
And I prayed in vain for the sky
To fall and crush my dreams

Now my mind drifts
Like an ocean lost at sea
And every night I dream
The moon is drowning
Peacefully in my sleep

New Book Out Soon

My fourth book, Creative Type, will be out soon. I’m waiting for my third–and hopefully final–proof copy, which should arrive next week. I’m tired of making minor changes to the document, not liking the changes, changing them back, then changing them again. I have to release the book. I have to let it go. Stay tuned.

Working On My Fourth Book

Happy to announce I’m working on my fourth book. It’s called Creative Type. I’m also laying the groundwork for my fifth book, The Education of Chris Truman. I won’t be updating this blog much in the near future. After Creative Type, I’m looking to go beyond my usual academic essay format. I’ll still post poetry and personal essays, but you’ll find less long-winded quotes from obscure French philosophers. Stay tuned!

Above A Whisper

I walk on blades of grass
around my father’s grave,
avoiding sunken markers,
careful not to wake
the dead.

I want to say
I found a teaching job,
my own apartment,
a patient woman
who loves me
as I am.

But if such things
still happen,
they haven’t happened
to me.

When I tell him it’s spring
and Vegas likes our Cubs
to win the World Series,
my voice breaks like mist
above a whisper too soft
for sparrows perched
on marble headstones
to hear.

Too Much Information

I sleep too often
alone. I slip
into my sheets
like a knife inside
a sheath. I skin
my knees in falling
dreams.

I’m a freelance
night priest. I write nun
fiction books to fall
asleep. I trace
strongly worded
letters. I mark
typos on my toes
with red felt pens.

I fix comma
splices, I hate
comma splices more
than gondola rides
and square root
canals.

I sleep too often
alone with my phone
on gyrate slipping into
dreams like a knife
inside a sheath.

I wasted four years
in military art school
drawing blood baths
then reversed course
on my high horse mid-
stream of consciousness.

I’m so fucking
alone. I told a priest
my tongue is sharper
than a knife
between my teeth.

Either I

Stuck in the past, I go from happy to sad and back again in a flash. I feel too much, much too fast. I have poems to write but not enough rhyme.

Robert Frost is on my mind. There are two trains at my station but only one for me to ride. I can’t for the life of me decide between them side by side.

Beyond the blue horizon lies a sky within a sky. I can’t see myself on either train with either I.