—WHAT YOU DID WAS, YOU SAVED MY LIFE

 

 

People Holding

 

The thing about the planet, which is obvious, is that it’s huge, though not as colossal as the solar system, which has another and another and still many other solar systems right behind it, yet it’s—our earth—still plenty sizable, overflowing with people everywhere, scattered here and there in the nooks, some of them fighting traffic right now, holding a cup of Dunkin Donuts coffee and wondering if they should risk a car shave, some hugging a curb with their mind blank or blitzed out because of an overabundance of substances, as cars pass by like seconds in a day you can’t ever get back, while other people across the globe could be holding someone they love the most in the entire world, right there in the crux of their lap, looking at them shot-up with cruel bits of cement and bomb shrapnel, more colorful than a painting, more grotesque than death itself, or others might be breastfeeding one of life’s miracles in a hospital somewhat solitary, just the two of them, as God or the universe once upon a time intended, while someone else could be holding a garishly written sign of protest as a string of black SUVs slide by ostentatiously, shots fired, rubber bullets or otherwise, but of all those billions of people on the planet, doing those things they’re doing right now, in this second and the next which will soon transpire, I want you to know that you’re my favorite person on the planet, that I’ll always be holding you close and tight, even if you never know it.

 

—I AM WAITING, SHOULD I BE WAITING?

 

Angel

 

The angel was 

bearded and wearing 

a trucker hat 

a flag tattoo on 

its forearm 

almost longer 

than its forearm 

It wanted to 

save me 

from my 

foolishness and 

imminent doom 

It held 

out it’s hand 

and began to 

lift me up close 

to that arena 

people call Heaven 

but then 

I saw the logo 

on the angel’s 

cap and pulled back 

my fingers 

lost any 

sort of grip 

I might have had

I fell through 

layers of clouds 

as if I’d turned 

into hailstones 

so large they

crack windshields 

but somehow

leave the flowers 

and deer alone

 

 

—TEN STEPS JUST TO RUN A MILE

 

 

…What are you so afraid of?

 

--I’m thinking

--About what?

--Mistakes

 

…Today is tomorrow.

 

…It feels like it’s better than perfect, which must mean it’s a good day to be alive.

 

… To be alive with precision and clarity, I think, is the purpose of life. But it’s not always easy.

 

…Whether it’s true or not, I’ll never know.

 

…It’s official—I should never buy another pair of shoes before I die, and if I do, someone should slap me silly.

 

…“Why else would you write poems if you weren’t trying to get downstairs into the basement, where the sewage pipes are all covered with dust and mouse shit more ancient that death?” Greg Kosmicki

 

…I’ve been trying to get over my weird phobia about submitting, slowly sending stuff out here and there, though nothing like the early days, that’s for sure.

I sent two things I really like to a journal I really like that was having a contest and the entry date ended yesterday. They asked for a bio. I hadn’t included a bio with a submission in a long time. It seems a little strange and remarkable that I’ve somehow had six books published:

Len Kuntz is a writer from Washington State and the author of six books, most recently, THINGS I CAN’T EVEN TELL MYSELF, out from Ravenna Press. You can find more of his writing at https://lenkuntz.blogspot.com

 

…To tell the truth, I never had a clue.

 

 …This could be one of my favorite quotes and descriptions ever, because it totally captures him—

“He could be swamped by his feelings, like a kid wearing a shirt several sizes too big,”

--Jamie Fischer, speaking of Elliott Smith on the twenty-second anniversary of his death by suicide.

 

…Alert: Theft reported less than 0.5 miles from your home

 

…Alert: Shooting reported less than 5.6 miles from your home

 

…You appeared in 92 searches this week

 

…Maybe I should turn off some of the alerts I get. Maybe they’re the reason for my anxiety instead of Satan.

 

…Stupid is as stupid does.

 

--“Don’t be stupid.”

--“Too late.”

 

…I’m confident that I’m insecure.

 

…“My Irish mother used to say to me, ‘You’re a tinker. You make a mess and then you move on’.” Poet Fanny Howe who died last week at age 84

 

…“I always felt that if you haven’t experienced atheism fully, you can’t grasp the shock of believing anything.” Fanny Howe

 

…Doesn’t everybody second-guess themselves?

 

…This is a one-way conversation, same as always.

 

…“Open your mind. Get up off the couch. Move.” Anthony Bourdain

 

…Don’t everybody fall all over themselves.

 

…I keep thinking, if I don’t write it all down I’ll lose it, though I’ll lose it all anyway.

 

…About 8 in 10 Americans, 79%, say immigration is “a good thing” for the country today, an increase from 64% a year ago and a high point in the nearly 25-year trend. Only about 2 in 10 U.S. adults say immigration is a bad thing right now, down from 32% last year.

 

…Someone on Facebook posted a photo of her two beautiful kids, smiling on a lawn somewhere. Under the pic, she wrote: “To the guy who saw my kids and said, 'Andale! Andale! ICE!' go fucking fuck yourself.” That's just one of the reasons why I don’t love my country anymore.  

 

“Honey, come here—it’s a shipment of new adjectives to describe how messed up everything is!”

  …Recent headline: National Park Service tells its gift shops to remove anything that ‘disparages Americans’

…I think Christians are destroying Christianity. For me anyway.

 

…“Pressure is a privilege." Billie Jean King

 

…Too much fun is no fun at all.

 

…You never really know when the whistle’s going to blow.

 

…“She was living in another state of being, constantly scribbling things on napkins.” Senna Howe, on her mother, Fanny

 

…I think the thing is, you do something you’re proud of and if someone else is touched or impacted by it, that’s a bonus, but if nothing at all happens, that’s okay, too.

 

…“Everybody is a genius. But if you judge a fish by its ability to climb a tree, it will live its whole life believing that it is stupid.” Albert Einstein

 

…It’s always a bad time to lose your footing, but this late in the game? Probably not good.

 

…There’s something about the word geriatric that sounds offensive.

 

…I’ve been fooled a lot and I’m pretty sure that I will be again and again.

 

…Turns out you actually can have too many friends, if they’re really friends that matter to you.

 

…“Just Let Them” works when you’re confident the outcome isn’t going to destroy you. Otherwise, it sounds brilliant in practice.   

 

…In one morning, within an hour’s span, I saw two (!) eagles flying right outside the window as well as a gorgeous deer just ambling through the yard. And yet I somehow still find things to bitch about.

 

..."I don’t really know what makes a poem. Or why it’s a poem. Or why anyone would want to do it, write poems. But it feels good when you do.

 

To tell you the truth, the first ten or so years when I was writing, I never paid attention to line breaks at all. I’d just write a line and when I got to the end, I’d start another line.

 

After I got my first book published, I showed it to the boss I had where I worked at the time.  He opened it up to the middle, read, then handed it back to me saying, 'This isn’t poetry, it’s just prose with line breaks. Yours doesn’t rhyme.'

 

I often thing of what Mark Strand said, 'The reason poems have jagged lines is so you can tell it’s a poem.'

 

--You are a happy person to interview and your poems are mostly happy. Do you use poetry to stave off the pathos most poets write about?

--Well, I don’t know about that because I haven’t been very happy the last seven or so years with what’s happened in the political landscape.

--But you seem happy?

--Back when W was President, I thought, you know, I’m not going to allow him to occupy any space in my head, so I refused to write any poems about having to do with political stuff.

 

--So, do you think poetry is fading out, or do you think it has the same vitality as it did, maybe twenty or thirty years ago?

--I think it’s got a lot more. 

--You do? Really?

--Well, there’s spoken word now, and that’s inspired by rap music, which is a different kind of poetry than I write, but it’s popular now, and has excited a lot of people. From everything I can see, people have always been curious.

--That's an interesting take.

--There’s a million little magazines, I mean, they come up like mushrooms, and from what I can see poetry is doing better than ever.

 

Looking at the stars is one of those things you’ve got to do every once in a while, like looking at the ocean. Nobody out there, where the stars are now, knows how we’re dressed.

 

Maybe the body’s desire 

is just to have a memory and leave it at that,

not one that’s connected with any particular time 

or place, but just a memory, a sense of

belonging and loss, a sense of wholeness 

and separateness. A sense of completion

and doom.

 

Everybody hated everybody.

It made life more simple that way.

You didn’t have to decide whose side you were on."

 

--Greg Kosmicki

 

—I CAN’T STAND THE RAIN

 

Death of Spiders

“As of May 2025, Isreal has dropped over 100,000 tons of explosives on Gaza in less than two years. During WW2, the Nazis dropped a total of 18,300 tons on London, 8,500 tons on Hamburg, and 3,900 tons on Dresden.” –The New York Times 

 

The night before, watching Bibi bomb Gaza for the millionth like it was a game you play when you’re bored but indifferent and don’t want to masturbate, I threw a can at the TV, noticing it bounce off onto the carpet, spilling a trail of foaming beer that hissed as it sank down into the fabric, and because blood is thicker than water, it seemed to dry faster than usual.

The next morning, I killed a spider almost first thing after getting out of bed, a black oval pendant with hairlike legs. It scrabbled up the side of the sink while I was brushing my teeth after I’d taken a piss, and it spooked me, this creepy breathing creature right there, clinging almost weightlessly to the porcelain, so I grabbed a Kleenex from my wife’s side of the counter and folded it like a soldier might a flag for another soldier who’s been killed in action.

It didn’t make a sound when I took its life, it didn’t moan or scream, say “I’m a mother, too” or “I’m just a child like the ones you have in your house.” It didn’t say anything because it couldn’t, and to be honest, I didn’t want it to. I didn’t even think about it again until much later because right then I realized I needed to piss again.  

 

—AND THE SUN BURNED LOW, ON THE RADIO

 

Cheap

 

They’re having a sale on babies at Neiman Marcus, and we’ve just miscarried for the fifth time, so we go and walk the marble aisles that resemble footpaths installed in museums or Pharoh’s mansions. 

Over to the side are the newborns, propped up like erect leather boots or running shoes that somehow giggle if you poke them in their bellies, about where the shoelaces would wear down after a while and unravel. 

“This one looks like you,” my wife says, perkier than I’ve seen her since our doc praised us for trying to procreate. “It has your same cowlick and unfortunate overbite, plus it’s half-off.” 

“A steal,” I agree.

So, I bundle up the dopey, doppelganger kid under my armpit and go to pay at the counter where the clerk says, “Oh geez, I’m so sorry, I don’t know how that one got in. It’s an immigrant, but if you look on the other side, by the Jimmy Choo and Manolo Blahnik rack, you’ll find a great selection of kids who all have their tags, plus most of them are a lot cheaper than what you’ve picked.”  

 

—I HOPE THAT YOU STILL LOVE ME

 

 

…I hope you’re not crossing your fingers behind your back. That would be a shame.

 

…Sometimes it’s good to believe in the myth, if that’s all you have to hold on to.

 

…It’s amazing how many products don’t work, or don’t do what they’re supposed to. Like M&M’s actually do melt in your hand.

 

…There’s symbolism everywhere.

 

…Here are two happy pieces I had published last week at Literary Underground:

https://theliteraryunderground.org/blog/2025/07/06/the-dogs-were-good-again-help-by-len-kuntz/

 

…And just when I think that can’t possibly happen anymore, it does. 

 

…“To tell you the truth, the first ten or so years when I was writing, I never paid attention to line breaks at all. I’d just write a line and when I got to the end, I’d start another line.” Greg Kosmicki

...Some days it lets you, some days not so much.

 

…Don’t you think coincidences are kind of spooky? They always make me second guess what I think I believe.

 

…I’m not sure what would be worse—for people to stop reading poetry, or for people to stop living altogether.

...Yesterday I had anxiety I haven't since Covid. I could barely handle driving on the freeway. I saw every overpass I drove under collapsing on top of me. I saw myself being crushed by every Semi nearby. So yeah, it wasn't the great day you thought.

 

…How was your 4^th? I spent mine wishing we were all still oppressed and ruled by England, or any country at all, for that matter.

 

…How do you even respond, now, when someone wishes you a “Happy 4^th!” 

 …Actual headline: Joey Chestnut wins 17^th Nathan’s Hotdog Eating Challenge: “I love pushing myself.”

 

…It really helps if you don’t care. But then why even show up?

 

…I know I cite AB a lot here, but he was a hero of mine from afar. I wish I could have had a beer with him, or two:

“I work really hard to not ever think about my place in the world.

I'm aware of my good fortune. I'm very aware of it, and I'm very aware that, because of it, people offer me things. Opportunities to do extraordinary things. The ones that are interesting to me are collaborations. I get to work with people who 10 years ago I wouldn't have dreamed to have been able to work with. And that's a big change professionally, and it's something that I think about a lot. How can I creatively have fun, do some interesting stuff, not repeat myself? Have fun. Play in a creative way. I like making things.” Anthony Bourdain

 

… You’re going to worry about what your friends worry about, or else you’re not really friends, so what’s the point of that?

 

…Sometimes I tell myself: Just stay with that, that’ll get you there.

 

…It’s amazing what goes on here. And a lot of it is shameful.

 

…Greif is a motherfucker. But the thing is, the very most important thing is, it reminds you that you’re alive, and that there was something or someone you cared about so much that their absence could do this—break your heart over and over and over again, without even knowing they have. 

 

…I know I’m not very clever, and I don't really want to be clever.

 

...When you stand up, it looks very different. 

 

…I really try not to go back to the well, but it’s always there, lurking under my skin, so I have a hard time not visiting, which means I repeat myself, so I’m sorry. 

 

…It sounds blunt and brutal, but it takes effort if you really want it.

 

…We’ve all had a lot of bad haircuts, but some of mine are unforgiveable.

 

…You just don’t meet that many authentically kind people. So, when you do, you take notice and try to befriend them.

 

…“I can have ten versions of one line … The word I chose is perfectly good, but for some reason, it’s rarely good enough … It’s mystifying, the thing that keeps you going forward, ripping up, ripping up, ripping up. What are you looking for?” —Fanny Howe

 

…“With John and George not here, I think we realize nothing lasts forever,” McCartney said. “So, we grasp onto what we have now because we realize that it’s very special. It’s something hardly anyone else has. In fact, in our case, it’s something no one else has. There’s only me and Ringo, and we’re the only people who can share those memories.”

 

…Even the word patriot seems warped now. How the fuck did they pull that one off? You have to give them credit.

 

…“Just turn it over to God.” Okay, sure, if you say so.

 

…She’s a brick, and I’m drowning slowly.

 

…“It blows me away. I look in the mirror and I’m 24. I never got older than 24. But guess what? You did.” Ringo Starr, who just turned 85 

 

…Headline in the Seattle Times, 7/5/25: 

Pride in America is cratering. But that’s not the same as giving up

…The hard part when people ask you about writing, and ask for help to get better at it, is that they don’t really want to write, they just want to be able to call themselves a writer.

…The world is sleeping and I am numb.

…As I’ve said here previously, I think it’s very difficult to make rhyming poetry happen, or work, but this one, from so long ago, does for me…

I’d Have You Think of Me

Djuna Barnes 1892 –1982

 

As one who, leaning on the wall, once drew 
Thick blossoms down, and hearkened to the hum 
Of heavy bees slow rounding the wet plum, 
And heard across the fields the patient coo
Of restless birds bewildered with the dew.

As one whose thoughts were mad in painful May,
With melancholy eyes turned toward her love,
And toward the troubled earth whereunder throve
The chilly rye and coming hawthorn spray—
With one lean, pacing hound, for company.

 …When you’re grieving and don’t know where to turn or how to act, sometimes taking the Pollyanna approach is your only hope.

 …Despite it all, today’s a good day to be alive.

—IT’S PRETTY COLD FOR JULY

 

Ice

 

I’d had a DUI, no two, but 

I wasn’t as drunk as the rest, 

so they sent me to fetch more ice 

before the fireworks got loaded and shot off, 

it being the 4^th and how our country 

was on the right track now. 

At the store, most people also

looked a little liquored up, 

grinning as if it was Halloween 

or their birthday instead of the 4^th, 

wearing red, white and blue, 

flag shirts, stars and stripes 

on their caps and shorts, 

some with a bold, patriotic tattoo. 

I got three bags of ice, a lottery ticket 

and two more cases of Modelo, 

my new favorite since what Budweiser did. 

In my truck, where you turn to go right or left, 

I noticed the Mexican woman wasn’t there 

with her kid like they always were, 

actresses the two of them, 

beggars and illegals more than likely, 

but their sign was still there, 

hanging crooked off the curb. 

I don’t know why, but I flipped it the bird

as I pulled away laughing my ass off,

though for some reason I 

thought about it later on 

just as the sky started lighting up, 

screaming in colors that were new to me.

—ALL SINS ARE FORGIVEN IN NEW YORK CITY

 

A Crazy Person

 

Like a crazy person, 

I’m talking to you again, 

inside my head or aloud,

I’m not sure which, 

which right away must mean 

I’m a crazy person, 

though no one on the 

street’s currently looking at me, 

though maybe the reason 

they’re not is because 

I’m nuts and scare them, 

which would seem about right, 

but anyway, I’m thinking 

about you again, Goddamnit,

because it’s sunny out and

the breeze smells like honeysuckle, 

which used to make you sneeze 

all over your face and sometimes mine.

It’s going to rain later, apparently, 

according to the nifty cloud logo

button on my phone, but that 

just makes me think about you more,

how you once tromped through 

the back yard, your whole body 

sinking and squishing in the spongy lawn, 

darting here and there like a magic scarf,

what a muddy fool you were. 

Tomorrow calls for hail, 

Hallelujah. It’s our favorite 

kind of weather, or was

back when you were still around, 

that endless ellipsis of white BBs

shooting down from the sky 

in an urgent rush, as if God himself

was vomiting up a million Dippin’ Dots

he wished he hadn’t eaten.

But God’s not here right now, 

you neither, Goddamnit, 

and that’s a shame, 

a crying shame as they say.

So, in my coat pocket, next to 

my one set of lungs, I’ve got 

your collar with me, 

the one I forgot

on the day the vet put you down

but called later to tell me about, 

to come and retrieve 

the dog collar instead of you 

because you were long dead by then. 

I think I’ll always think of you, 

maybe until I’m dead, as you are now. 

It’s crazy to say that, to feel so much

about what some people might say is only a pet,

though you were far more than that, 

you were, even if it sounds psychotic 

to confess such a thing, my joy.

And so, I’ll say it today and 

will likely again tomorrow,

even if it’s thunderstruck, stormy-as-hell

Helter Skelter Watch-your-head-Lucy!

weather, the kind we both feared and hated.

I’m not certain of much anymore, 

what kind of country this is or tomorrow’s forecast,

yet I’m pretty sure I’ll always miss you, 

even if I say so out loud, on accident, 

to the old woman walking down 

Front Street, wondering, 

Who is that lunatic and 

why won’t he shut up?