A Month in Krakow

A funny thing happens:
A day becomes a month,
a plot becomes a line
— best fit —
and outliers are discarded
for sake of

the data.

We must

focus on

the conclusion

and fabricate

the narrative to

make it


Our lifeline

depends on fit.

In time

we learn

to walk backwards

into the future,

trying to


today by

making up


History is justthe bias that passes

as narrative by

the victor after


A word of advice:

Rememberthe end.

It Stares Back

I’m not sure why
it seems more real
to stand at the edge
and look at what hell
we’re capable of:

To walk a cross-stitch
at the lip tottering,
a mis-step, a mis-spoke,
a curious pull,
a spiteful blow,
afraid to fall,
afraid to go
you stop to watch
the coals fade


I tap the edge of the granite counter.
Somewhere concrete poured in.
The quarry was cornered.
Choo choo trains were ridden to end of lines.
I tossed salacious incendiaries like
drilling hardline worries
i.e., porcelain blemished
with salt water stains,
i.e., sagging ledges,
a broken water main.

Did you know
you can turn a dead-and-gone loved one
into a gem?
Polish me pretty!
You used to pay in
funeral fees
it’s only $49.99
plus shipping.
Forget me not!
You can wear it around
your neck.
The dignity.

Photo by Joshua Fuller on Unsplash

Well, We Found Ourselves Here (Now What?)

Bucking bull chained.
His dangling septum ring clangs,
golden or iron-wrought,
winged or Atlassian,
8 seconds of madness then
unrecognizable sideways glances and…
You, an unbroken link
can trace your line in
puddle jumpers, layovers and
trans-Atlantic migrations, that
uprooting of plugs planted in new land,
tilled before and after by hands
that clasped your own. Locked,
intertwined, in bed
aboard the Lusitania that life
sank, but you are firm.
Grounded, entrenched, while others
found their beds in trenches. You
passed on beyond
letters, email chains, and encrypted MMS
to profess your perfectly
ordinary, depressive longing
for meaning beyond dumb luck.

Photo by Luke Stackpoole on Unsplash