eBooks available!

I have eBooks/PDFs of my work available for sale to those who might be interested. All were previously offered as rewards to various tiers of my Patreon subscribers (a program I will be continuing there, btw). If you want access to the most recent collections as they come out, I’d go there. Just sayin’.

The titles include:
Annual “best of the year” collections. Currently available: 2017 — 2023.

“Then Play On,” a chapbook of poems about music

Pushpins and Thumbtacks,” a volume about icons and cliches of American culture

“Noted In Passing,” a revised eBook of a chapbook from 2012 that was a limited edition written for a single feature

“White Pages,” my collection of poems related to race and its role in my life

Decay Diary,” a collection of poems about aging

In the Time Of Contagion,” a collection of poems about you-know-what

“The Wrong Flowers,” a prose/poetry meditation on the state of the USA in 2020

Show Your Work,” an eBook version of an earlier, out of print chapbook.

“The Day,” a selection from 20 years of poems about 9/11/01.

“Ideation,” a short collection of poems old and new about living with depression and suicidal ideation.

“Long Winded,” a collection of longer poems.

“songs for reluctant warriors,” poems for the US political moment of early summer, 2022.

“3 Quarters” released in October 2022. Random and recent.

“Owner’s Manual” released in December of 2022. Poems in the form of directions.  

“Worksongs,” March 2023. Poems about the world of work.

“3” or “Tercets.” July, 2023. Poems with stanzas of three lines. An experiment in craft.

“Missing.” October, 2023. Another craft experiment. A chapbook that’s missing…something. Or a couple of things. Up to you to figure out what…


Minimal # of repeats among the collections.

All are available as both PDF and ePUB formats.

If you are interested, let me know with a comment on this post. Right now? They are 1 for $8 through Paypal, Venmo, or Cashapp — 3 for $16. We can talk about larger quantities and discounts if you want more. Message me for the details.

Thanks.


Suicide

Go now. Find your way past
edges and borders. Look into
liminal space for his preferred
edges.

Into his explosive space,
his placement in it; was it central
to him, a fence post of his reason,
a tough stone for logic? He didn’t
seem to know. He kept
his own counsel in all matters
and it fell to him to do no more
than mutter, say “never mind,”
close his eyes, wonder how it all
went together or not. So:

go now. Go to his source
or go alone. Allow him
this one luxury, this response.
Go into the street and sob.
You are not at fault for this.


Wall and Door

Had a floor
Had a wall
Was quite ordinary
Extraordinary

Had a floor
Remarkable linoleum
Supple and flexible
Floor of wonder and ordinariness

Had a wall
Built of swipes and tenderness
Wall of disbelief
Wall of purest slate and demure nature

Really it was nothing
Wall and floor much like normal
Except they held an extraordinary truth
Only to be revealed in an ordinary light

The house has been reviewed
Floor and wall commented upon on Sunday
Left in a wind-rush of regrets
Left behind wall and door and forgetting


The Tiles

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When I’m Sixty-Four

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My Buddy

My buddy Freddy
is an odd duck, or
a weird bird, or perhaps
an unusual animal:

maybe it’s one
from the past and
fits his clothes?
Some folks dress up

like a bird here. They all
act weird. Fits
their clothing choices.
I don’t see it, frankly;

they got to have a reason
and they don’t seem to
have a reason. Just a gem,
a tapstone. Just enough

to keep me free.
That’s not enough, though;
hiding in the dark
is all I have. Meanwhile

Freddy laughs and giggles
about pressure and the gain
of companionship — wait;
that’s not it. That’s not it at all.

He’s lost and in the maze
of relations and old baggage
and it’s all I can do to think
he meant something to me,

and he did, and it’s
nothing at all
that he’s the killer.
Nothing at all. Just the bones

matter now. The bones
of giggling and contention.
The mystery of the stairwell,
and the lost knowledge of the street.

Ever have a friend like Freddy?
He is all the bird I need: flitting elsewhere
and letting the light guide his way. Meanwhile
he’s a menace and I am alone.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T


Desire

Blond — a woman natch, turning heads,
natch, as if there was something unnatural
about it when she looked that damn good. A redheaded woman
in black corsets. A brunette tearing apart
a costume — red, all red;
devil’s curls, lethal eyes,
no trace of a color beyond
brown, auburn, dark brown
lending itself to black.

All of it resistant,
all of it forgettable.
People walk by nonchalant
and let it be.

Blonde, blackhhaired,
red, brown; all the same, all quiet
in the front and noisy
from behind.

Do you. Mind
the gap between
what you want and what
you resist. Disdain
the noise;

let go the folly of lust
and let be the peace of all things.


However It Does

Will now the body down
until it breaks or
shatters with cosmic force
on the sidewalk.

Hold the mind intact until it happens then
let go the last participant
until it is parked and perfect
and there is little to say.

Sit there. Stabilize until the world ends
like a neighbor. Tell
it to people — tell them
an explosion doesn’t matter,

that it doesn’t matter how many die. But it does,
it does.  It is of utmost importance.
It stops mattering the moment
the last victim dies:

you see how peace comes to the face,
how it relaxes. You see
how it begins to manifest in the earth
and sky, are struck by it. 

You unwind, let it go.
Whatever cataclysm follows, you let it go
on and on.  It’s not yours to follow.
You were its engine — no more. Let go.

Let go and let God take it. You 
were always reluctant. Now let God
do its part. Whatever you end up
calling it.  However it answers.


Birdsong

Canary sings
from the dark mine
until the candle
goes out.

A robin sings
from his perch, his bush
until his light, his shine,
ends.

I go on and on
chattering until
I stop. Then
I start again.

Day or night
I start, I stop.
I begin, I end.
Opening, closing.

When will it end?
Has it begun? Ask
Canary and Robin
how they feel.

They live too short
to compete. If this a game,
I win. A marathon?
I finished. But

if I won? What if
I won? Who cares?
They left singing while I
fell silent, and the songs

fell silent until
other birds took them up
and raised them again
and I stayed silent, marvelling.


Throw Hands

I throw my hands at
the boxing shade before me.

If I were a rich man
I’d hire a champion
as it’s too large a challenge,
I tell myself.  

I am
far from rich, like most
just drifting  through,
and these hands
I used to depend on
don’t clench right
for that work — 
not anymore.  Not sure
they ever did.  

I swing on
the vaporous.  I am 
bound to lose, but not yet,
I tell myself;

that time
I connected  —
I felt its mist on my skin
as I passed through
and for once that was revival
more than icy warning.

Having flurried at the hands:

were they snow,
were they vapor,
were they something else?
I have lost touch
with what I’m assumed
I’ll connect with.

I’m comfortable for now,
but wait.  

Just wait.


Continuing the story

Whew.

It’s been a whirlwind of a standstill this month. Feels like nothing is getting done and everything is perched,waiting to begin.

On a prosaic level, that’s true. I’m perched on a very high tier in that my motor skills are pretty sharp and my intellectual skills are also good.

On a more profound level, it’s not so great. I still have trouble with getting my ideas across and occasionally the word salad in my head tries to eat them. Those times I have to stop and let the storm calm itself before setting out or moving on.

There are also work travails and other stuff I won’t bore you with right now. Suffice to say I won’t be doing much. I do have some poetry gigs coming up, but I cannot cross that bridge just yet.

Word of advice?

Don’t have a stroke.

Onward,
T


A Pair Of Lenses

On the horse,
a pair of lenses

swollen to fit the nose.
Handsome in silver.

The frames slick with promise
that this attempt wouldn’t embarrass.

I stood there embarrassed.
I suddenly had scant idea what was required

but I swore this attempt would not fail.
I swore this attempt would matter.

It didn’t matter. The horse
attempted closure. I did not.

We two were alone with our failure
since all I could do was fail.

We stood, false-lonely, loose-limbed
on her part; I wept tight and shaking

with unease and frank horror.
I could not, would not.

Did you know this would happen?
I did not, should not.

As ordinary as shattered glass?
As customary as any mistake?

I should not, would not.
The horse and I stood there

in the stall until someone came
and took us back to our places.

I lay down on my bed
and wept till I knew I wasn’t wrong

and this was the way of things,
how space and the universe were supposed

to unfold and that being right
would take a long time.

The horse doffed her glasses,
shook her head. Wondered

about the taste of sugar as if
it was supposed to be sweetness.

It was supposed to be.
Anyone knew that.


Trials

The nourishment of the illegals is at hand, the Karen Read trial proves it, you can hand feed the test feed of media bits and let it hang, you can dance as if it matters, you can hang your jaw over the words for your own purposes and pretend it’s for Passover and remain invisible? What difference does it make?

The ravishing of the system is at stake, the white faces of the defendants are at hand, the Donald Trump trial challenges it, you can hand test the offspring for proof of the ravening and the lusting, what of it? What of it with the great grey lull of power gnarling over it all? 

You can challenge it, is all. You can imagine it all in power, all invited to lust within, all incited to yearn with invertebrate longing of grand glow and globs of deep glow.  It won’t matter at all. It won’t and it can’t. The sun will shine, the rocks will glow.  You’ll be fine, or you will die. Thank Jesus for that one. Thank someone, for Chrissakes.


The Status

The status was no longer
easy, a relaxed nervous pitch;
an eventual result could be
failure, could be catastrophe,
could be nothing much at all.

The status reached over the edge.
No one coaxed it to point in one way;
instead it demanded we go either direction,
urged us to choose a way and follow it,
then stepped aside and serenely refused to choose.

I sat by tingling with the status.
I say I sat and did not worry about who would respond.
I sat and did not respond to the storm of urgency
that followed the elevated status. It was my choice
and only mine. I chose, and there was distant thunder.


Nothing Changed

Observation: some of the writers
are stuck in the wake of an eclipse
that was contested a week ago
and moved on serene from the wreckage
to today or nearby, calm as churchgoers
in the leavings of damage and mayhem.
Afterwards they thanked their stars and
moved on.  Others held their breath
and remained stark and breathless
with the memory of near death, while some
exhaled and just moved on without seeming to care
about where they were or how they might
eventually place.  A whole world collapsed
and nothing came of it for me. Nothing
moved on. The world remained intact.


Say It All

Say it all. Put a meaning
on your sounds. Attach
other words to new words
and let them dangle and hang.

Love and theft and mistaken urges
like the longing for sense or the gasp
of the delighted lover over
the unexpected gift: give them your voice

and let them speak as you do. Say 
it all as you do. All will be well
or it will not. You will stand
triumphant either way,

knowing that however dumb
you appeared, you managed
to release yourself beforehand.
You were free. You are free.