—AND SHE TOLD ME I REMIND HER OF TED MOSBY

…Do you like him, or like the actor? 

…Somehow, I lost 80 pages of these Friday blog thoughts/gibberish. But there’s more where that came from.

...Happy Juneteenth!

…I’m trying to work it all out before you leave again. That’s a story.

…It was bound to happen eventually, and what did that other stuff even mean to you? 

…Here’s what I tell myself: Just grab onto something and don’t fall.

…I’ll try not to be depressed if you aren’t.

…“Write me a poem where I don’t end up in an urn.”

…You gotta pay for it somehow.

…I don’t believe that anymore. You’ve already expressed yourself pretty clearly.

…Beginning is easy. It’s everything after that that’s hard, that matters. And I know that’s a lot of “that’s” but that’s the point.

…If some of the chapbooks I’ve read lately become best-sellers, it would literally be poetic justice.

…Chair it.

…Or vice-versa.

…Maybe you should take a nap.

...She said, Who? I said the actor. 

…I’m half a day late to the party. Again.

…After all, I really like Josh Radner. 

…“There are no small lives, there are no small stories, there are no small people.” Richard Russo

…It took a computer to come up with that.

…Go ahead, rub my nose in it.

…The weird thing is, it seems like that already happened.

…It’s okay. It’s probably good to purge every now and then, though there was some real gold (and time) in that document that got deleted.

…Got me in my head again. Kinda wanna call you out. You said you wanna be alone. Feel like driving.

…Yeah, whenever you’re ready, I guess.

…I know, I know, I’m the worst guesser on the planet.

…Speaking of planets, don’t we live in a great world/country?

…

… White House UFC Fighter Josh Hokit Shouts ‘Michelle Obama Is a Man’ in Post-Match Interview

While Josh Hokit was a big winner at Sunday night’s UFC Freedom 250 event, a post-match quip he delivered was designed to stir up controversy.

After he won his heavyweight fight against Derrick Lewis during the June 14 fight on the White House lawn, Hokit was interviewed on the Paramount+ broadcast by Joe Rogan. At the end, he shouted, “And lastly, Michelle Obama is a man. Am I right, America?” seemingly out of nowhere.

 

… White House removes Ariana Grande song from TikTok video after she blasted ICE for its 'barbaric, inhumane, heinous nonsense'

 

…

Records reveal $600M estimate for Trump’s ballroom project, with half from taxpayers

 

…You can’t get any farther away before you start coming back to it again.

…I love those things, those moments with others like you, where almost everything someone says, you say back, “That’s a good first line.” They jumpstart your imagination and creativity in a way that most people can’t understand.

…I’ve lost a lot, but it’s pretty crazy how much I’ve gained.

…I may have made up that word.

…It’s been a long time since I stayed up staring at the stars.

 …Okay, I’ll admit it, how I was wrong about Noah and the Whale.

…Alert: Shooting reported less than 5.7 miles from your home

…Was it something I did, or something I said?

…I leave so much shit behind.

…There must be a word for that.

…It wasn’t supposed to be like this. 

…“Why would you do that?” Exactly—why? 

During the Giants' annual Pride Night celebration, which honors San Francisco's LGBTQ+ community, four MLB San Francisco players protested the team's hats, which featured a rainbow version of the team's logo.

Three pitchers, Landen Roupp, JT Brubaker and Ryan Walker, wrote a Bible verse on their Pride Night hats. The verses all referenced similar passages in Genesis.

The protest has become the latest lightning rod in the cultural discussion around LGBTQ+ acceptance and inclusivity in places like Major League Baseball.

The Giants have tried to keep their heads down amid the drama, but team broadcaster Mike Krukow shared his thoughts on the players and how their decision doesn't align with the demographics and culture that San Francisco and the Bay Area want to foster.

"I think that you have the right as a player to believe and say whatever you want," Krukow told the San Francisco Chronicle. "But you have to take a broader look at the city you're playing in. What makes San Francisco so great is the acceptance of others — ethnicities, opinions, cultures — and that extends to the gay community.

"I would just hope they would understand the demographic of San Francisco and respect people for who they are. What you do to your uniform, that has weight to it. You can offend people. And why would you do that?"

…There are a lot of different ways to spell “train wreck.”

…I may over-use the word “astonishing.”

…Eaves-dropping is a little bit evil, yet it’s also the best. Cheers!

…Just tell me you’re not happier now.

…It’s not sexy if it’s not sexy.

…You’ve gotta look out for spiders. Sometimes they’re everywhere.

…Hotter than a pepper sprout.

…I really disliked Johnny Cash’s music as a boy because my parents played it all the time, and there was that silent friction between us, one of the reasons I turned out the way I did and can’t fix anything. But now I see how he was unique, a treasure really.

…Sometimes it seems like everything is performative, even loneliness.

…I’m almost at the trouble spot. Zoinks.

…“I’m not sure I’ve got my arms around it.”

…I love your shadow, but I love your smile more.

….I really hope there’s more than me.

…I don’t know why it does that.

…I’m writing this in the dark again.

…Go ahead and throw those pillows all you want.

…Anything can mean anything if you want it to.

…There’s never been a time like this before, and I pray to God there never is again.

…I believe in Jesus, but I think the problem with a lot of Christians is they leave Christ out of it.

…Elizabeth Montgomery was a terrible actress, but I had a huge crush on her. I’m not sure if I was in love with her or if I just wished she was my mom.

…How can you possibly love watching the local news cover the weather when you live in Palm Springs and it’s the same fucking weather every day.

…Sunday is going to be the longest day of the year, like literally the longest.

…Sometimes a hug is all you need. Sometimes that means everything.

…I know that it’s hard. It’s hard for me, too.

…“You’re killing me, Smalls.”

…No, you’re not wrong. All I can do is write poems and stories about people who live tragic lives and often die along the way. I love deer, giraffes, elephants, my family and friends, and that’s about all I have to offer.

…So, that’s what that was about.

…I could use some repairs.

…I guess you just keep swinging, even if you’re a bad guesser.

…You’ve got to stop with that leg kick.

…“Take care of your heart, young man.” 

…Do you ever fear choosing incorrectly?

…I hate that Fucker, and if you’re a human being, you should, too.

…You’re not doing yourself any favors by being like that.

…Fighting fire with fire.

…How do you die before you’re even four-years old? People should not die before they’re four-years old. People shouldn’t die at all.

…I’m one of the lucky few, and I know it.

…Your profile is popular. You appeared in 83 searches this week

…“Ladies and gentlemen on board. Congratulations! You’ve just set a record. We’ve completely run out of alcohol in the first hour and a half of this flight.”

…Sometimes it takes a lot of time to get there, and then you have to decide whether it’s worth the blisters.

…“The atomic unit of worry is the “What if” statement: What if an event that I fear comes to pass? What if I don’t get this thing that I really want? What if my best-laid plans go awry? What if the worst happens? To be human is to lie awake in the night, mind wrapped around the axle of a “what if.” Melissa Kirsch

…But what if it all works out?

…No matter how it ends, that was a great story, and no one can tell me differently.

…Yeah, it’s a killer, but it’s better than being dead.

…How about those letters?

…If anyone’s up right now, send me a text and I swear I’ll reply. 

 …“Veiled” is a good word. And an important one.

…I think you just have to let your typos go, or else they’ll drive you insane.

...The last thing you ever want to hear is, “That’s a nice poem.”

…You’ve gotta be smarter than that. It’s your heart, dude.

…There’s only one place I look, and still, I usually get it wrong.

 

 

 

 

—WHAT ELSE COULD IT BE? 

 

Cold War Kids

 

The ice was all we thought about then, all we missed. 

 

Lying, thieving and cheating, all that was too easy, Man. They’d become ritual—cheap tricks we’d tired of. But the ice was slipping away like promises, or some kind of gold we’d heard about and wanted to admire and fondle, if only from afar.

 

We’d taken down the Playboy centerfolds by then and where the nudes used to flop—their melon breasts gleaming like a totally different kind of pledge, or fruit—we now hung pictures of polar bears taped up in the tree fort like mug shots.

 

We had glaciers, ice caps, icebergs, The Titanic, snow drifts deep as wells, old dudes in parkas with frost on their lips, icicle hair, their white foggy breath censored on the magazine paper, yet visible if you looked close enough. The ice was all we missed.

 

Baek then, Man, we ended every sentence with “Man” because we weren’t men by any stretch, taffy chew or dad’s belt. What we were was a nest of cluckolded and confused boys who never knew we were, like love, when you’re a couple of feet steeped in it.

 

Nearly every afternoon, we passed Gordie’s jar of clear around the fort while Eddy fished the plastic sack for cubes that landed in our cracked glasses like wind chimes or church bells with a hollow ring to them, signaling prayer or thoughtful observance. 

 

If you listened even a bit, you could hear every swallow we took as we sat up there on the unforgiving planks, swaying with the reckless wind, kind of cozy yet awkward and unsure, trying to remember what it felt like to shiver, to feel something you can only get once and can’t ever get back again.

 

 

 

—IT’S CLOSE ENOUGH

 

                                          The Red Wheelbarrow

 

William Carlos Williams was wrong. Nothing depends on a red wheelbarrow. It doesn’t have anything to do with your crappy youth or the way Mother pokes needles into the ragdoll in her lap, that tattered cloth thing which looks so much like you. 

Red wheelbarrows actually fucking suck, if you ask me.

If you push a red wheelbarrow far enough, long enough, nothing much happens except you’ll get lizard blisters or maybe your arms end up a couple of inches stretched out, like a boy-chimp, but you’ll still be a skinny punk afterward. The moon won’t talk to you, the buttercups won’t, and no girl is ever going to open her mouth with your name in it unless they’re saying you have Cooties, that you’re the class freak who never speaks.

And still, I keep hauling that red wheelbarrow all around, up and down our craggy hillside, way past the trailer park and back, because I trust poetry. It’s already saved my life more than once, and I’m only nine so far. 

So, maybe the trick is filling the wheelbarrow with flowers instead of dirt, balloons instead of plucked weeds and dandelions. Or maybe it’s the dandelions. Maybe that’s what your future depends on—how they’re beautiful, their fragrance and color, how they’re not weeds after all, but instead, something special you hold onto. 

 

—CRIMSON AND CLOVER, OVER AND OVER

…Okay, okay. I get it now.

…I’ve been looking for the king of diamonds, but I guess the queen will do.

…Whatever comes out, that’s what I’m having, and I promise I won’t complain.

…Don’t try this at home. Maybe at a motel in an obscure country, but don’t try this at home.

…You motherfucker. (Sometimes being called a “motherfucker” is actually a sign that the person calling you a motherfucker loves you.)

…FYI, no one says FYI anymore.

…All right, Fuck it then.

…We’re never going to land on the perfect goodbye. That ship sailed by years ago.

…I can do without any more overbearing personalities.

…But you gotta do that, right?

…I’m almost there. I’m almost asleep.

…Catch me if you can, and if you can, well, I feel sorry for you, but Thanks.

…I keep trying to make something of the ruins, but it never seems to work out.

…But what do I know, right? It’s just how I feel.

…Or maybe I don’t.

…Say what you want, but I’m not buying it.

…Gravity does what gravity does.

…I don’t recognize the voice inside my head.

…I guess the difference is perspective, right?

…“You’re like Shakira back here—your hips don’t lie.”

…Your credibility is shot.

…What was the question again?

…Be careful whose bandwagon you jump on.

…What thrills you?

…“I’m always excited by the unlikely, never by ordinary things.” David Hockney

…I know what that poem needs—some paper Japanese lanterns.

…Maybe it’s not about you. Have you ever thought of that?

…I’m still carrying your bags.

…Why did you wait so long?

…Those kinds of things can make a person suspicious.

…Always have a backup plan.

…Even if they don’t really mean it, I kind of love when someone uses “ever” in a sentence.

She’s the nicest person ever.

If you read it right, it’s the best poem ever.

That was the best kiss ever.

 

…I’ve definitely never been here before.

…The thing is, you have to be able to not take it personally, otherwise there’s a bridge somewhere with your name on it.

…Who thought this was a good idea?

…“Anyway you fuck with it will only make it worse.”

…Staring at the city trying to get it right.

…Love can get in the way and change things.

…"The words are the important thing. Don't worry about tunes. Take a tune, sing high when they sing low, sing fast when they sing slow, and you've got a new tune."  

Woody Guthrie

…It’s really not very fun to watch people fail.

 

--This is really hard.

--But you haven’t even heard the question yet.

 

…We made a little story there. We did.

 

…I’m going through this, but I’m not sure if you are the same way.

 

…So, we’re tied, I guess.

 

...I never guess right.

 

…“Get your own Fucking coffee.”

…I’ll get back to you on that.

…I’ve got miles and miles of scribbles and you don’t even have me.

…“I don’t Fuck much with the past, but I Fuck plenty with the future.” Patti Smith

…It’s complicated, right?

…People who answer with, “It’s complicated” always sound like they’re copping out or trying to be evasive.

…Everything has exceptions.

…I feel like a stranger.

…The “It Factor” is real.

…I’m trying not to overpack my next piece.

…“I like anything with a cheese sandwich in it.” Jesse Millner

…How about eight? Isn’t eight a nice round number?

…You have to have a lot of balls to sell a bottle of water for seven dollars. 

…There’s so much I could say.

…“Len, stop talking.”

…Please contact your doctor if you haven’t already.

…I fought the law, and the law won.

…I should probably eat something.

…I’m used to pain, but this is a different kind.

…Hello, Wisconsin, Lisbon, Largos, Madrid, Porto, Bilboa, Snohomish and Seattle. I see you shining there and you all look pretty in your own way.

…Which frame would make this look right?

…There’s something missing.

…I am the bad bearer of news for someone.

…I don’t remember saying that, but if you said I said it I must have said it.

…Hey, you know what? Good for you.

…That would be funny if it wasn’t.

…I can barely see because my head’s in the way.

…I might be too pale for this weather.

…“We’re here to change, even if it’s a little bit.” R.V.

…Do you ever listen to yourself?

…"I’m not looking for my writing to be legible so much as arresting, worthy of some degree of immersion on the part of the reader." Abby Frucht 

…The other night, someone (who may or may not have been stoned) called me the most peaceful-looking person they’d ever seen. Hey, I’ll take it, even if it’s a lie and not true. I’ve been called other things.

 

…“I like devilish, thorny, dirty, mean roles, unbelievably sad, unbelievably happy, and burdened.” Amanda Plummer

…“Are you guys ever going to talk about something interesting?”

… “As it grew on me . . . I wished others to share my joy.” Solomon R. Guggenheim

…I apologize in advance for everything.

 

—BUT THE THING IS, YOU SAID YOU WOULD NEVER LEAVE AGAIN, AND I ACTUALLY BELIEVED YOU THIS TIME

                                             The Missing Boy

I fell in love with the missing boy, who looked to be about my age, 14, in the posters stapled on nearly every telephone pole.

He resembled a cherub or half man, rosy-cheeked and concerned, his eyes cast away and wandering in the photo, as if a bird had taken flight just before the camera flashed.

Some say he was in the fields looking for a lost dog when he disappeared that day. Others wondered why his folks didn’t seem more beat up about all that’d happened, why they didn’t join along with any of the search parties.

I figured his were like my parents, the architects of absence who had built a family with too much white space in it, mom and dad present, there but not there, the wine glass in their hand as important, or more so, than me or where I’d been.

I found the missing boy in Storm Lake by the old dock no one ever used anymore, his face grinning up all wet and glossy from the reflected moon. “Come on in already,” he called. “Water’s not getting any warmer this time of night.”

He was a good dog-paddler, probably part mermaid, even though he was a boy, and his legs flapping and flashing in the murk only made me love him more.

We swam naked that night and many others until Dad busted up Mom one time too many and she and I moved across the country to her sister’s Reno place. Aunt Caroline was special and read cards that told about your life. One night she read me and said, “This means you’re in love.” “This means it’s a secret affair.” “This means you’ve found what’s been lost.”

I wrote a book that sold well. Most of those readers think I made it all up, which is only half true, because I had pages to fill. Even though I’m older now and married, and even though he’s older too, I still swim many nights with the missing boy. What I’ll do is I’ll pull out that folded and faded flyer and spread it out on the lip of the tub, light me some candles, run a bath, lean back and swim with him wherever he wants to take me.

 

 

—THERE’S NOTHING LIKE A MELTDOWN  

Proof

Sometimes it feels like 

you ruined my life, 

though I’ve been known 

to hold a grudge.

I see you with him, his 

corncob chin tucked 

against your clavicle at 

a football game and my 

only response is to shudder.

You said you loved me once. 

You said it again and again. 

A few times you were naked 

and most times you were 

mere words on a screen, 

but you said it.

This poem is proof.