It was easy
to love you
even though
you were
and I know
you were tired
so I’m glad
that you’ve gone
to your rest

but it will
take awhile
to reconcile
that you are not
here anymore
to be better to me
than most men
have ever been
and certainly
more than was
ever required.
I wrote this when Paulie died but it was a year yesterday since we lost Uncle Al and I realized that every death feels the same, when it was a lion that passed. Love to you both.


‘I Don’t Know’ Is An Honest Answer

One thing happens
and it makes you think
about all the other things
that have happened
to bring you here.

Are you happy?
Are you proud?

Did you make all
the right choices?

Did you handle
the wrong ones
with grace?

Are you happy?
Are you proud?

Because one thing happens
and it makes you think about
all the other things you would
rather not ever think about again.

So are you happy?
Are you proud?



At almost exactly this time last year, Uncle Al died. And a few days prior to that, his mother-in-law died. My Uncle was definitely not the funeral hoopla type, so being able to go the funeral for his mil was really cathartic for me.

I am not the sort to need to declare my personal pain when tragedy strikes all over the internet. Except in poetry form, of course. One of the stalwarts of the neighborhood died this week after a long health struggle, and we’re going to the wake later today. And then I found out yesterday that a dear man I know died in his sleep yesterday.

I won’t pretend we were close. I won’t hold my pain at his loss up against those who have known him better, longer and deeper. But he was a better man to me than was required, at a time when he didn’t need to give me anything at all, and I always appreciated it more than I could ever say, although I tried.

When I saw him in June, as has thankfully been the case lately with people that I lose, I hugged him. I told him I loved him. And he told me he loved me. And I will cherish his care and his complicated way of being so easy to know. Rest in peace, Judy and Paulie. I am grateful for your rest. 


The Other Half

I am entirely comprised
of half-written poems

I can feel them
sitting in my chest
like rocks

and I can see them
on the inside
of my eyeballs

I am haunted by a constant
overwhelming urge to
make myself sick
or cry my eyes out

hounded by the search
for the other half
of the poems.



May It Do Him Ease

“You can get
pretty far,”

he said

“when you’re
not sure where
you’re going.”

“Is that so?”

I replied

“I suppose
it depends on
where you start.”

“How about here,”

he said

one hand
on the map
and the other
under my foot,

“Come on, and kiss me.”