I assure you, this is a poem
Who’s to say it isn’t?

Five Months

Begin transmission

Five months have passed since last I had human contact.

Summer, autumn
came and went.

Five glorious months


of Internet comments sections,
of reality television,
of inconsiderate motorists,
of religious congregation,
of political affiliation,
of birthdays,
of sick days,
of long retail lines,
of team-based fanaticism,
of social constructs,
of familial obligations,
of celebrity ribaldry.

I’ll be home tomorrow — I miss the cat.

End transmission

A Narrative Seldom Told By Cats

I drove.

It wasn’t anything special.

The process involved the usual sequence of steps I take:

1. Put on my seat belt.

2. Place the key into the ignition.

3. Turn aforementioned key in aforementioned ignition.

4. Listen in awe as the engine roars to life once again.

5. Shift into “D” (an abbreviation of “Drive”, which is what I intended to do).

6. Apply pressure to the accelerator, which is located near my feet, by the floor.

What followed was an unrecorded series of observations and decisions required to safely transport my person from one starting point to an eventual destination. I do not recall those decisions. neither do I remember having a destination in mind.

I just drove. Sometimes on a straight path for hours. Often turns were necessary. Once, a dashboard indicator alerted me to the notion that I must consciously decide to stop lest the vehicle instead make that decision for me.

I acquiesced. Then I repeated the instructions listed above and achieved an expected result.

That’s life on the open road.

Your secret’s safe with me

A pernicious trinket

Dyslexic animals

Admiration of man

Notoriety gained by press release and

Sword swallowers falling on swords, clasping hands
with lesser brethren

The sheikh steals six sheets

A Feeble Attempt

Often, I come here with the intent to write an update about my life, and nothing but prose comes out. I mark it as “poetry.” I am not a poet, but I like the way some words go together. Like:

“A prim mistress
Cast-iron lung
And sheets of ice lay melting

Over a sonogram

Sixteen beat reporters and two tired officers run rampant
Chasing criminals and scoops in reverse
Order in the court”

Occasionally, I hit send and these words get beamed out into the world for anyone to read. Traffic is a trickle, though, and that’s cool, because this prose crossed with words you know forms some kind of connection for a lucky few.


Like Britney, I did it again.

(This post marked as “poem”; Google Reader marked “as read.”)