--RUNNING ON EMPTY

       

                                           Fairy Tales

      There was nothing to do, so they took turns shooting at each other.  It was just pellets, but the metal bits still stung and to get one in the eye meant blindness.

       They were in the craggy woods that drifted off behind the trailer lot.  A breeze carried the stench of rotting things, garbage, food waste and perhaps decomposing animal carcasses.

       They each got hit several times.  One raised a welt the size of grape on the boy’s neck.  The older brother laughed when he saw it and so the younger one laughed as well.  It felt exciting to be happy about something for once. 

 

—IT’S LIKE TRYING TO GROW FROM THE CONCRETE

 

…“Love is what apathy can not touch. Love is what hate never understood.” Ingrid Keir

 

…Everyone’s going through something. Isn’t that the truth?

 

…I looked around and I had nowhere else to run. 

 

…I hope to remain brave enough to still be capable of tenderness.

 

…My arms are getting tired.

 

…I can totally see why you’d think that.

 

…THEFT REPORTED LESS THAN 4.5 MILES FROM YOUR HOME.

 

…SHOOTING REPORTEC LESS THAN 5.6 MILES FROM YOUR HOME.

 

…You ever have the feeling like maybe you left the stove on?

 

…You can’t ever completely know another person’s thinking.

 

…The key is to completely clear your mind.

 

…You know what I have right now? Right now I have to clean the sink.

 

…What are you hoping to achieve here?

 

…I guess I’m wondering what you’re willing to make room for.

 

…“The heart is not a distraction from what’s real. The way we love shapes everything.” Ingrid Keir

 

… Dennis Quaid Thinks Hollywood Has “Gone Far Left, Calls Trump ‘Really Genuine’ With ‘A Lot of Energy,’ says Trump sincerely cares about everyone in America.”

…Today President Trump called Robert DeNiro “Sick. Demented. Very low I.Q. and cries like a baby.” The Guardian

 

…If you have a platform and you never use it, what’s the point?

 

… The nation’s birthrate — that is, the number of live births per 1,000 people in a given year — is down by more than 25 percent since 2007, when the decline began.

 

…“What happens to you doesn’t belong to you, only half concerns you. It’s not yours. Not yours only.” Claudia Rankin

 

…What I hate about writing is the paperwork.

 

…YOUR PROFILE IS TRENDING THIS WEEK

 

…“Wicked people never have time for reading. It's one of the reasons for their wickedness.” Lemony Snicket

 

…I’ve been getting really good at being annoyed with myself.

 

 Andrea Gibson:

 

--And if we make it, or don’t, I want you to know it was worth it.

 

--I’ve gone half of my life not knowing the difference between killing myself and fighting back. 

 

--Just to be clear, I don’t want to get out of this without a broken heart.

 

--Say, This is my life. 

This is my precious life 

This is how badly I want to live.  

 

Say Every fever is a love note, that there are better things than being cool.

 

Say Fuck to everyone who asks you if you eat enough. Say How do you not know, that is so fucking rude. Remember you never have an obligation to quiet the tornado in your chest.

 

--You will never have a greater opportunity to learn to love your enemy than when your enemy is in your own red blood.

 

--I once spent four years of my life wearing a tight rubber band hidden beneath my hair so my brain could have a hug.

 

--I think we are all part shaking in the storm, part fight the flight, part run for your life. 

  

--I have been told sometimes the most healing thing we can do is remind ourselves over and over and over—other people feel this way, too.

 

--Some people will never understand the kind of superpower it takes for some people to just walk outside some days.  

 

--There is no bruise like the bruise loneliness kicks into your spine.

 

--The trauma said, ‘Don’t write this poem. Nobody wants to hear you cry about the grief inside your bones’.

 

--Dress me in whatever will get me through the door to your heart.

 

--Don’t worry. I am not fooled by my thumbs. I can’t even swallow my own pride long enough to let myself drool.

 

--To truly live is to see right through the skin to the avalanche.

 

--The dark years work too. Sometimes better. Sometimes grief is the fastest route to truth.

 

--What if we don’t have to be healed to be whole?

 

--I watched a dandelion lose its mind in the wind.

 

--My friend, if the only thing we have to gain is staying in each other, my god, that is plenty.

 

--I miss believing in the same thing everybody else does.

 

--Every good heart has lost its roof.

 

--Everyone’s survival looks a little like death sometimes.

 

--I wrote a poem called ‘Say Yes’ while I was cursing your name for you not letting me go.

 

--I have a hard time. I cry as often as most people pee.

 

--Why can I still take a punch better than I can a compliment?

 

—I CLEANED UP MY SHELF WITH THE DUST

Ochre

The bottom of the tumbler is misted with amber liquid, a ghostly imprint that could be anything, mean anything, if you let your mind drift, especially with the bar lights turned low, shining ochre with him on a stool now for how many ever hours, this his fourth or fifth drink, his torso made of tinder or straw, something flammable and unreliable as he swirls the sheen of remaining whiskey into the likeness of his daughter’s face, her eyes blinking at him from the bottom of the glass, her mouth neither a smile or scorn, the same way it was the day he forbade her from seeing that boy again, the same way it might have been when she took his car through the storm, rounding the curve at Devil’s Elbow too fast, the vehicle catching air like a black cloud too heavy to float in the night sky.

 

—I’VE BEEN SINGING TO AN EMPTY CHAIR

 

                                           Carnies

       At the carnival, my father holds my hand for the first time, his skin damp like a bed sheet.  

       The bearded lady is obese with a sleeveless dress that shows her armpit hair.  My father says, “People can be whatever they damn well please,” and maybe the bearded lady hears because she starts tittering and can’t stop.

       He buys me a cotton candy cone.  I can’t help noticing how it resembles that lady’s beard, only this fluff is pink.  When I refuse to eat, my father snatches it away and mashes it under his boot the same way he does cigarette butts.

       I want to go on the ride and I don’t.  I’m waiting for him to tell me something.  There must be news.  He’s never taken me anywhere that wasn’t about work or errands.

       At The Dime Toss, I finally drop a coin down the throat of a vase and get a little puppet monkey that’s missing one eye.  I nickname him Reg and send him a message with my mind not to worry, that he will always be safe with me.  I use my thumb and make his head nod appreciatively. 

       My father says we can do The Ferris Wheel, but he gets distracted at the shooting station.  The prize is a giant panda.  He keeps firing but not making enough hits.  He pulls out bills until his wallet is flat.

       He doesn’t drive home and I should ask why he’s parked in a lot but I don’t.  We sleep.

       Next morning, he gets out, goes up to the store’s glass door and makes a worker open early by gesturing at me and saying something.

       The stuffed bear he buys barely fits in the backseat.  Its fluffy ear tickles my own ear.

       When we get home, Mom’s not there to receive her stuffed animal.  Dad reaches into the cupboard, behind a sack of sugar, and pulls out a bottle.  He drains it over in a half hour’s time.

       I come out of my room when I smell smoke.  The panda’s arm and chest are on fire while Dad sits on the sofa, watching the flames lap and lick and smolder.

       He doesn’t respond when I speak or yell or scream, so I get up and put a few things in my backpack.  

       Outside it’s abundant sunshine, as if the world is ignorant or only cares about itself.  There’ll be time to figure that out later.  Now’s the time for walking, walking fast.

 

—THIS IS HOW SOME OF IT REALLY HAPPENED

 

 

…Here I am, overthinking everything again.

 

…Maybe I should sleep it off.

 

…So, what do you want from me? What do you need?

 

…It’s not easy. It’s never easy.

 

…When it comes to feedback about my writing, I’d rather have blunt honesty than people blowing smoke.

 

…Everyone says tomorrow and tomorrow, but tomorrow never comes.

 

…Maybe I’m the drama.

 

…Everyone has their stuff.

 

…But who were you telling?

 

…It can sometimes be a shock when people remember what you remember.

 

…Thank God for Spotify.

 

…I’ve been thinking twice. Thought you should know.

 

…It was never going to be good timing.

 

…What are you sorry for?

 

…A lot of times, reality really sucks.

 

…When you find yourself circling the drain is when it’s a good time to call a friend.

 

…There’s always a “but,” an “unless,” and “except.” 

 

…--“Why are all of your songs sad? Every single one of them?

     --“They’ve always been that way. Even when I was a kid, I wrote them like that. I don’t know why exactly, but that’s the way they come out.”

          ---Willy Vlautin, The Horse

 

…There are five times as many men who say they have no close friends as there were in 1990. 

 

…I hate when people say something is a “gamechanger.” But I dislike “Y’all” a lot more.

 

…Today, it’s me. Tomorrow it could be you.

 

--I had hardly begun to read 

I asked how can you ever be sure 

that what you write is really 

any good at all and he said you can’t 

 

you can’t you can never be sure 

you die without knowing 

whether anything you wrote was any good 

if you have to be sure don’t write.

    --W.S. Merwin, Berryman

 

…This is probably the right time to re-direct your focus.

…Yeah, I know.

 

…What’s the smart move here, because I never really know?

 

…Maybe you should come to the funeral after all. 

 

…I think there are more steps.

 

…I wish I could feel like that, like they do on Sunday. I wish I could believe in something like that.

 

…Being happy is a really important part of living for a long time.

 

… “I can't believe what you say, because I see what you do.” James Baldwin

 

...This is like totally stupid. I don’t even know what I’m doing.

 

…You have to give it up for anybody (especially a guy) who tries to cover The Cranberries, “Linger.”

 

…Sing me song for a while. We can talk about it later.

 

…Just drop me off and pick me up later if you feel like it.

 

…“He was done with stewing over songs until he was half mad. And no matter what he did or how hard he tried, his songs were good but never great. How many notebooks had he filled? How many hours and months and years had he toiled and tinkered?” Willy Vlautin, The Horse  

 

--Everything okay?

--I don’t want to bother you, man.

--You’re not bothering me. I’m asking.

 

“…Asking one good question is like pushing the Play button.” The Boys 

 

…Yeah, I’m just not so sure about that.

 

…I’m not there yet.

 

…Is this going to be a good thing?

 

…When I say, “I love you,” I’m not joking.

 

…We’re about as good as we’re ever going to be.

 

…What is it you remember about that time?

 

…It was strange, in the corporate world, always being on display. And now I’m the opposite. I’ll take today over that every time.

 

…YOU APPEARED IN 43 SEARCHES THIS WEEK

 

…I guess I just don’t want to keep on carrying it. Do you know what I mean?

…“The fake liberal media says I’m charging $5,000 for front-row tickets,” Kid Rock wrote in his social media message — before going on to confirm that $5K is indeed what he is charging for the top face-value tickets to his upcoming shows. “I WILL pray for them, but I know that sooner or later God will cut ‘em down,” Rock said, referring to members of the media who reported on his ticket prices.”

 …Clowns to the left of me, Jokers to the right…

 

…People only know what they see.

 

…But you didn’t even listen.

 

…I wish I was the favorite.

 

…I guess you can train yourself to do anything.

 

…“Prayer is the hygiene of the soul.” Baudelaire 

 

…Infirmed much?

 

…I need to avoid nowhere.

 

…Nothing hurts as much as hope not being met with reality.

 

…Just 54 percent of U.S. adults say they consume alcohol, the smallest percentage in 90 years.

 

…Since the U.S. president claimed he wanted to make Canada the “51^ststate,” traffic across the Washington state border from Canada has fallen by 1.2 million cars.

 

…Headline last week from The Washington Post:

Trump aides struggle with how to spend $500 billion more on military

  

...Last year, the government eliminated all US funding at $22 Billion annually for USAID (U.S. Agency for International Development) whose key initiatives included “ Feed the Future (agriculture), Power Africa, global health (vaccines, disease control)”

A 2025 study estimates that USAID-supported programs saved approximately 91-92 million lives in low- and middle-income countries between 2001 and 2021.

 

“O.K., I’ll put that on my calendar and we’ll just keep an eye on the weather and the fall of democracy.”

…What are you thinking about?

 

…Almost every day, it’s impossible to read the news and not be completely repulsed by something.

 

…I think I mostly agree with this guy—

"I’ve been watching an absolutely heroic amount of pearl-clutching lately from people who insist that J.D. Vance would somehow be “worse” than Trump once Trump’s inevitable political and biological expiration arrives.

Let’s get something straight: it has never been about Trump, not for one second.

Trump is just the mascot. The real story is the people who finally saw themselves in him and felt validated by what they saw.

I actually believe most of them will drift away when the cult collapses, like embarrassed fans of a one-hit wonder. Many of them will swear they were never really into him at all. The MAGA amnesia is going to be epic.

I used to wonder how it was possible that Trump could have won in 2016 and then again in 2024, given how emotionally toxic, morally vacant, and psychologically mangled he is.

I don’t wonder anymore.

I think he won for that exact reason.

He wasn’t a candidate. He was a mirror.

If you were a racist, you found your guy.

If you were a misogynist, you found your guy.

If money was your only religion, you found your guy.

If your heart was armored shut, you found your guy.

If you mocked disabled people, you found your guy.

If you hated intelligent people, you found your guy.

If you were a rapist, you found your guy.

If you enjoyed golden showers with Russian sex workers, you found your guy.

If you’d done absolutely nothing to confront your emotional wreckage, you found your guy.

If you were a serial cheater, you found your guy.

If you were a perpetual bankrupt, you found your guy.

If you stiffed honest workers, you found your guy.

If you were a conman, you found your guy.

If you mocked people’s appearances, you found your guy.

If you longed for a toxic Daddy, you found your guy.

If you were dissociated and disembodied, you found your guy.

If you were unconscionable in every economic dealing, you found your guy.

If you lied as naturally as breathing, you found your guy.

If you’d never eaten a green vegetable, you found your guy.

If you were a white supremacist, you found your guy.

If your ego contained a hole so large not even the presidency could fill it, you found your guy.

If you were a sociopath who cared not one molecule about other humans, you found your guy.

If he had only two of these traits, he never would have won. He won because he had hundreds of them, and millions of people recognized themselves in at least one.

This has never been about Trump. It has always been about the people who finally had their worst instincts validated.

Trump didn’t create the cruelty, he licensed it. He handed out permission slips for hate.

He is merely a symptom of a far deeper disease: collective toxicity.

If there is one sentence that explains Trump’s power, it is this: “He says the things I’m thinking.”

That’s the part that should chill the spine.

Who knew that tens of millions of Americans were thinking such unconscionable things about their fellow citizens? Who knew how many white men felt so threatened by women and challenged by minorities that they were ready to torch democracy to feel big again? Who knew that after decades of apparent progress on race and gender, so many people were living in seething resentment, waiting for a demagogue to legitimize their worst selves and convert their bitterness into political power?

Perhaps we were living in a fool’s paradise.

We aren’t anymore."

– Michael Jochum, Not Just a Drummer: Reflections on Art, Politics, Dogs, and the Human Condition

 \

…“In a time of rising cruelty, love feels like something we’re not supposed to have time for.” Ingrid Keir

 

—NO NEED TO STAND SO FAR AWAY

 

                                            Witches                            

        People call her a witch, but they don’t know.

       I watch her slump.  She’s always slumped over—when walking, seated, sleeping.  Her hair is a matted fern, covering her face while Merv Griffin grins on the television set.  The blinds are closed and a stripe of light, thin as a stalk of uncooked pasta, cuts the window in two.

       My brother and dad have gone hunting.  Last week they killed a buck and had me take pictures of them standing beside the bloody carcass.  The two of them are close, like friends, how I will never be.

       My mother’s breath is a rasp-and-hum, rasp-and-hum, a lawn mower stuck in mud.

       I get a hairbrush from the bathroom and sit down on the sofa beside her, gently working through the tangled mess.  I tell her about school and girls I only know peripherally.  I don’t say how they call me The Witch’s Daughter, Satan’s Spawn, names like that.  I make up a story about a boy who loves and protects me.  I say his name is Gary.  I tell her he would make a wonderful son in-law someday.

       I make chicken noodle soup and spoon some into her mouth.  She has a hard time chewing the noodles and bits of them cling to her lower lip looking like crumbled molars.

       I tell her that whatever’s happened to her is an accident of the body or mind, some type of physical failure.  I say, “Someday you’ll be better, tip top.  You’ll see.”

       Her small head sways like a buoy.  Warm tears—hers and mine--spill over my palms.

       I stand her up and help her shuffle across the room, out the door, down the steps and into the car.  I’ve packed everything we’ll need and, even though it hardly fills up the trunk or backseat, I’m certain it’s enough.

       As we drive away, for fun, I cast a spell—nothing evil or spiteful.  Just a simple incantation so people will forget who we ever were.

 

—A SIDE OF ME SHOWED UP WITH WET HAIR

                                       

How We Got Here

       We wear hand-me downs and each other’s shoes, even if they’re too tight and pinch.  To save money, father buzzes our hair down to bristles with shears that rattle and sometimes catch patches of skin.  We eat in silence, the only sound metal chinking on plastic plates, food being chewed and swallowed.

       After supper, we lay on the shag carpet watching black-and-white TV, listening to a family that’s nothing like our own, hearing how happy they are, noticing what a fine car they drive, how big their dining room is.   

       At night we three sleep on the same mattress.  We never dream, or if we do, we never say.  In the mornings we rise before the sun and make it to the fields, row after row of the same bushes, flocked with blood-red berries glinting against green.

       We work on our knees, filling the flats as fast as we can because it’s cash money they pay here.  Afternoons, we stand in line with the other migrants, wilted and sweaty, each person taking his turn, handing over a punch card and receiving berry-stained bills in return.

       Years later, one brother steals a car, another brother robs a convenience store, and I break into a house.  That’s how it starts and begins to end.

       Now we wear orange uniforms, sit in similar cells, stroll in sunlight for a single hour each day.  At night we lay in cots.  We imagine freedom, beaches with chalk-colored sand, a skiff bobbing on waves.