poem

 Land of Jeff

Welcome to the Land of Jeff. Everyone here is Jeff. Formerly a boom town, founded back in the early seventies. Originally a mining town. When the silver went bust we tapped into a thin vein of hope. This used to be such an exciting place. It seemed like anything could happen. No two Jeffs were the same. Some you couldn’t stand to be in the same room with for too long but most of them were pretty cool in slightly different ways. Hospital Jeff was always at the hospital. There's Jeff in the backyard staring through the bonfire reciting soliloquies from Hamlet. Basketball Jeff alone on the driveway court, 1v0, once again making the last shot at the buzzer to win the game. Music Jeff and cries in movies Jeff. Jeff with the clever retorts. Painfully shy Jeff. Afraid to talk to girls Jeff. Proud of himself Jeff. Jeff who hates himself. Jeff with the long ugly mullet. Jeff trying to impress his dad. Salutatorian Jeff. Careless reckless Jeff. Jeff who defaults on his loans. AOA Jeff. Broke Jeff. Almost dropped out of med school Jeff. The Jeff who works so hard to make enough money he’ll never be broke again. Talks to himself Jeff. Insecure Jeff. Scoundrel Jeff. Terrified Jeff. The Jeff who buries longings under mounds of false irony. Earnest Jeff, gentle Jeff. The Jeff who can be a little bit of a dickhead. Jeff in a constant state of baffled wonder. Jeff who forgets your birthday. Disciplined Jeff. Reliable Jeff. Good boy Jeff. The Jeff who always seems to let you down. Jeff in love. Broken hearted Jeff. Clinical Jeff who will coldly cut you off like a gangrenous limb. Penny-pincher Jeff. Generous Jeff. Everyone here once had a friend named Jeff who quickly wore out his welcome. Some of us crossed paths with Jeffs who kind of grew on you after a while. You got the feeling that if you looked hard enough, paid attention, and really did your best, you would eventually find a limitless supply of Jeffs. He was everyone you had ever known. It was a good time back then. So happy to be here, before we even knew what happiness was. We thought we’d spend the rest of our lives together. But now we’ve fallen on hard times. Haven’t had a visitor in years. One by one all the Jeffs seemed to just leave or disappear. Our population plateaued years ago and now is in steep decline. Every morning another row of houses, entirely abandoned. Moved on to the land of Liam or Lincoln or Jack. All our schools are now thrift stores. Some days the only other Jeff I see is the one in the mirror. Well, as long as you’re here, enjoy it while you can! Some day soon you won’t even be able to find it on a map. I’m only telling you this because I love this place. I’m not embarrassed anymore. We had a good run. Never did I think anyone would ever want to stay here for long. And truth be told, everyone else is gone. I’m the last one left. I’m the only Jeff. 

6/28/26

poem

 City Limits

Welcome to Anywhere, USA. Population almost infinite. We’re an All-American town where everyone is welcome as long as you abide by a list of ordinances written down, lost, forgotten, and then forged back into existence long ago. On the other side of this line lies a world of indistinct possibility for any wanderer willing to try. If you have been kidnapped and brought here against your will, please be patient, someone will be with you soon. Enjoy the complimentary pistachios and pineapple juices while you wait. We are not responsible for property misplaced or forcibly taken. Nor do we have the resources to prevent an unholy concentration of wealth in the hands of a nihilistic upper crust. Our rivers are numbered but not named. We don’t pay attention to mountains. Every bridge here is a different color. We don’t preserve old barns for the local historical society to turn into boring museums gathering dust. We just let everything fall down (when it must).  Nevertheless, every day is a ribbon cutting ceremony celebrating the opening of another portal to the other side of consciousness. Anyone is free to use them but it’s a one way trip. No one comes back. At least as far as you know. The first thing you ought to do is pay a visit to our lovely visitor’s center where they slash you with a scythe and, when the wound heals, you get a lifetime pass to the community pool. Only the diving board is off limits. Down this road is where you find expensive, brightly lit mansions displaying giant portraits of its inhabitants that you can see from the road while driving slowly by at night. Down the other way is a dead end, but only after several thousand miles. The road I’m currently on can only be accessed by foot. Seven lanes of pedestrians in both directions. Most of us here are just 9-5 working stiffs and the commute is all part of the suffering. We’re just like you. Only a little bit different. Rush hour is terrible in most ways except for one— you meet some interesting people just standing there for an hour in lane 6 on the Old Cinderblock Trail. We all work at the Respite Home for the Hideously Deformed. My current charge has a scar on his face shaped like a memory you only half forget but still feel. All day long he rubs his fingers along its keloided edges while staring out the window. He never talks. I’m not allowed to know his name. At lunch hour the employees all gather behind the one way glass to watch the residents chew. The human digestive tract is essentially just a long absorptive tube with openings at the beginning and end. Pretty basic physiology. Didn’t take a genius to come up with that. Nematodes, the nickname of our high school team, had it down at least 600 million years before us. Outside of work, we’re like any other municipality; grocery stores and gas stations. More cobblers than you’d expect, fewer steak houses. But all in all a pretty standard American layout. I pretty much get along with everyone here. But don’t ask me what it was like before I arrived. You’re not allowed to talk about it. Whatever happens here is immediately forgotten. Don’t take my word for it— it’s in the disclaimer written in tiny print at the bottom of the contract nobody ever signs but will. Once you cross our town’s threshold nothing will ever seem the same. Every smell will have a specific sound. Your orgasms will completely interiorize, become spasms of mental ecstasy without any outwardly physical manifestations. Love is an acceptable form of currency (plus the 3% surcharge). The children all live in a giant cage like the aviary at the zoo, the \ seniors occupying the top branches of the tree with the 1st graders down below feeding on their droppings. This is a family town. Old stock. Traditional in every sense. We would never use a euphemism when we mean to take the Lord’s name in vain. We believe in all the punishments— corporal, capital and ethereal. Eternal damnation is a joke. Like telling your best friend you fucked his mother. Every September 4th we all gather round the old gazebo on the grassy commons and listen to a series of unsettling speeches delivered by community elders dressed in white tunics. This is our High Mass. They use the old language none of us were ever taught.  But we’re not here for understanding. We bow our heads and receive our penances in the form of cigarette burns on the back of our necks. Then silence spreads across the lawn like an afternoon eclipse. We close our eyes and contemplate the martyrdom of our patron saint, Adam of Eden—fallen angel, exiled from paradise, someday to return again. There never was a snake.

6/27/26

poem

 Hydrophobic

Given our crystalline compositions

It’s a wonder everyone doesn’t dissolve

Surrounded by all this water

Fragile lattices of salts and minerals 

Weakly linked by electrostatic

Forces that falter when wet.

Danger lurks in every

Pond, lake and ocean

Even puddles are a threat 

Each of us a cube of sugar

Teetering on the edge 

Of a cup of hot tea

Which is why they always say

Don’t drink the water

If you don't know what’s in it—

So many invisible impurities

Hiding in its clarity.

I suppose we owe our wholeness to skin

Which wrinkles and folds

And tries not to let anything in.

I keep throwing myself

in the sea

I keep dragging myself

to shore

6/21/26

poem

 Father's Day

One day when I am gone

You may choose to rifle through

These poems I’ve written

As a way to learn something

I may have kept hidden

Or find clues to puzzles

I left unsolved while still living.

This is the only one you will need.

Think of it as a skeleton key

That unlocks our secret black box,

Written before either of you 

Were awake on a Father’s Day 

Of no great acclaim.

As usual I was up inexplicably early,

Had paid some bills, texted my own dad

A happy day and readied for rounds

At the hospital. The grass needed 

Cut and I had a toothache

I would continue to put off for weeks.

The years were going by so fast.

I was starting to look old in pictures.

What else is there to remember?

The potholes in Turks and Caicos?

The vicious biting spiders of Idaho?

The Spanish rental car fiasco?

Soon it will be your turn to add 

To the catalogue of stories 

Some kid will want to hear 

Over and over and over.

Until then I’ll keep writing until I can’t,

Each word a quiet cord

Of firewood stacked in the shed 

For you to use in the winter

Someday when it’s very cold

And no one feels like talking.

6/21/26

poem

 Normalcy, OH

Well, well, well— whaddya know,

Here I am, friendly suburban man,

Fairly normal after all. 

Middle aged with a mortgage,

A wife and kids, a good job

I don’t hate 

And a little money set aside 

For special occasions.

Who would have thought it?

Yes, there are a few skeletons in the closet.

Yes, I am a jackass.

Yes, I deserve much less.

But here I am, indistinguishable

From any other moron wandering

Aisles of hardware stores

Looking for a certain size of nail.

I almost blend right in—

Lizard king alien wrapped in human skin. 

I didn’t think I could actually pull it off.

Had envisioned something much different—

One of those guys who misses everything 

Everyone else usually takes for granted.

A series of passive observances

Of milestone celebrations featuring people

No longer really part of my life.

Not that I would make it awkward,

Standing there stupidly in the cold,

Gawking from the other side of the window.

No, I’d bring the charm, for the most part,

Like a clever heckler in the front row

Of a pro basketball game whose banter,

Despite its initial subversive appeal,

Loses its allure by the end of the night.

Yes, what you see right here

Was always in doubt.

A sad and lonesome future,

I’m sorry to say, filled the alternative itinerary —

First, a period of uneasy disillusionment

Followed by short bursts of recklessness

That led to a series of family

Estrangements and broken friendships

Mistakenly recorded as wins 

I imagined scales falling from my eyes

Restoring an original version of vision

Where everything appears filthy and rotten

Even love began to reek of the spoil

And it seemed fair to just not give a damn

About anything at all which opened up on a long stretch

Of sullen self-exile where

Small universes of resentment

Cropped up to fill the empty spaces

Once crowded with the entanglements of other people.

After that, your options are fairly limited.

Best case scenario you sublimate 

This anger and frustration into

Disciplined endurances of pointless

Exertion and aimless confabulation.

More likely, live out the rest 

Of your days as a bitter contrarian—

Forget what’s funny

Say something rude at Dad’s funeral

Catch god in another 

Obvious contradiction

Prove the buddha wrong

By asserting the necessity 

Of your own existence 

Commit to working out

Commit to a healthier diet

Commit to a good night’s sleep

Alas, none of it helps 

Kill the time better than

A period of honest self-reflection

Which ushers in the final movement—

A series of abandoned novels!

Thousands of failed poems!

A whole moral philosophy that collapses

Upon the slightest brush

With any human intimacy.

The whispers begin 

To get louder and louder

And then we say them together—

So much talent and untapped potential!

Should have been a doctor!
Got married! A father!

Wasted his life!

Tragic suicide!

Took the easy way out!

I hate to admit but part of me

Misses that poor man

I just dodged becoming.

He was so me—

A richly deserved destiny

Hovering on the edges of distinct possibility. 

After all, this world is small and mean,

Everyone dressed up, rictal grins,

Oblivious of catastrophes

To come, enjoying themselves

A little too much at Thursday

Night garden parties 

With a bunch of dolts they don’t even like.

Think of top hats and parasols. Do you have one?

I have an extra behind the trellis.

Let me tell you a secret

About a dream I’ve been having 

Nearly every day of my life

It's a dream within another dream

Which functions as subtext 

To the larger, more encompassing dream

Which, for some reason, includes you, 

Right now, in tonight’s version.

In this dream, I’m not a total sell out,

Haven't turned my back entirely

On the self-flagellating loner

I thought I was born to play.

Though I seem to be a conventional

American mediocrity, a worker bee 

Hauling his meager gatherings

Back to the hive to share,

I conceal the truth under

Thin veneers of respectability—

I’m a weirdo like everyone else

A hermit who can’t bear to be alone

Damned, but for love

6/21/26

poem

 Hail Storm

It descended like unforeseen grief

The sky darkened, earth shivered 

And all the animals quieted.

Buckshot balls of ice 

At terminal velocity

Unleashed an enfilade of fire

On the lines of pine trees

Loitering around our neighborhood.

Soon the streets were carpeted

By a thatched matting of sheared

Off branches and shredded vegetation,

A scene most post-apocalyptic.

Windshields shattered 

Houses shed shingles 

While the machine gun thrum

Of icy shrapnel dimpling the hoods

Of cars and aluminum siding 

Augured the thunderous drumbeat 

Of a distant war party

About to emerge from the woods.

When it was over a leery silence lingered 

As if the world was holding its breath 

For the next deluge to drop.

But the sky cleared and the sun emerged

And a rainbow arched across the pale blue.

A boy pointed and said— look, god forgives us!

While his father nodded and wanly smiled 

And went on with his restorative work

But didn’t mention how a rainbow 

Is actually a full circle,

The other half of the promise

Buried in the mystery of the earth.

6/16/26

poem

 Haunted

People who believe in ghosts

Always have the ghost doing 

Such dumb things—

dragging heavy chains 

slamming screen doors

dropping TV controllers on the floor 

If I were a ghost I’d crawl inside

Your clothes while you were still wearing them

Put my ghost ear against your real heart

Skin against spectral skin

When your top buttons come undone

The hairs on the back of your neck

Bristle as the cool breeze

Of my ghost breath

Caresses your white chest

Yes slips from your lips 

You get so flushed 

People stop to ask if you’re ok.

You just smile and say

You’ve been haunted

6/16/26

poem

 A Few Lines

In the operating room 

I know exactly who I am

And what I’m supposed to be doing

Outside the hospital I pretend

To be a person who knows who he is 

And the role he was chosen to perform 

In the former, I wear a mask because I must

For the latter, I wear one to hide.

You can go your whole life like that 

I wonder 

If there is a place halfway

Between this knowing and not knowing

Every poem I write is a compromise—

The mask comes off

But only for a few lines

6/16/26

poem

 Confession

I confessed it all to the tree

Looking up through its branches 

Like an old, wrinkled face,

Sun splotched and shadowed.

I said I didn’t deserve to be here

Had dishonored the gift

Left so much undone

Failed too many

Then the wind sifted through 

Dry leaves, whispering an answer

I didn’t understand but needed

To hear

6/16/26