Month: January 2025

Mannequin Rodeo Girl

she stands there, frozen,
draped in red like some kind of
plastic outlaw,
her dead eyes aimed at nothing,
maybe the exit sign, maybe the past.

the price tags dangle
like motel keys in a ghost town,
waiting for a hand that never comes,
waiting for a reason to matter.

someone dressed her up for a life
she’ll never live,
cowgirl hat, fake leather bag,
dreams stitched together from old fabric
and bad decisions.

the store hums with neon loneliness,
tired jackets sag on racks,
and she just stands there,
cool as hell,
waiting to be bought,
or forgotten.

Deland, Florida

Jack Schitt

Jack Schitt.
He had the kind of name
you’d see on a bathroom wall
and laugh at,
a name built for bumper stickers
and dirty jokes,
but there it was,
nailed to eternity.

“He was an asshole,”
the plaque says,
but funny.

Like that makes it better,
like the world needs more assholes
with punchlines.

The truck below hums along,
hauling yesterday’s crap
like it always does.

Jack would’ve liked that.

Canaveral National Seashore, Titusville, Florida

Lone Pink Shoe

Look at it—
pink and small,
with a cat’s face stitched to the leather,
smiling as if it knows
something about joy,
about the swift, spontaneous dance
of childhood.

Who left it here?
Who forgot it?
Was there a rush,
a tumble into arms,
or only the silent, careless way
things are lost
on the edge of a busy world?

But here it is,
waiting in the open air,
a tiny relic of running feet.
And isn’t it a kind of miracle
to be reminded, so simply,
how small we begin,
and how much we leave behind?

New Smyrna Beach, Florida

Where Directions Fray

The arrow leans without weight,

and the wall holds its breath.

Where you were going,

you have already arrived.

The folds remember light

as if it were a story
no one told,

the rust listening for something else.

Signs forget their names

and wear themselves down

into the silence you carried here
before you knew it was yours.

Nothing points,

nothing stops.

The way follows
itself
through you.

Peaks Island, Maine

The Beans and Potatoes Days

During the beans and potato days
when he was still doing school
and the future was like
a fogged windshield
with a broken defroster,

Benny was dating a girl
with family money and
no worries.

Secure in her station
she loved to laugh,
and smoke and screw,

and talk in an exhausting carnival
of ceaseless randomness,
a fascination of which
she never tired.

Her temptations were an
intoxicating distraction
from his murky prospects;
her generosity as boundless
as her monologues.

Benny was seduced by
his newfound fortune - 
being fed and dressed
and fucked and given gifts of
clothes, big books, 
candlelight dinners,
and antique shit 
that accumulated
on his crowded dresser.

Yet, he saw nothing
when he looked
in the mirror,
could not hear
above the noise,
and though he was
comfortable without
a map, he felt himself
stalled and sinking
in discontent.

I can’t do this anymore,
he blurted out one night
during martinis
and foie gras.

But I can give you everything
your heart desires,
she countered,
What do you want?
A Porsche?
A boat?
A romantic trip to Paris?
Anything?

Benny just shook his said,
said I’m sorry,
then left her sitting there,
alone, stunned
and waiting 
for the check.

He couldn’t explain to her
something he didn’t 
really understand -
that he was living where
no one was home,
and that she couldn’t
possibly give him
himself.

January 20, 2025

He has:
	no class, 
	no charm, 
	no cool, 
	no credibility, 
	no compassion, 
	no wit, 
	no warmth,
	no grace, 
	no shame,
	no ethics,
	no wisdom, 
	no subtlety, 
	no sensitivity,
	no self-awareness,
	no  mercy,  
	no humility, 
	no honor,
	no humanity.

Eighty million chose him
and not a goddamn one’s
gonna clean up his mess
when he’s finally gone.






The Monkey Jumps Into the Water

Now the monkey jumps into the water.
                         —old Hungarian saying

The monkey jumps into the water.
Dilbert tie, crooked grin,
corn silk wig and bad cologne.
He doesn’t know how to swim.

Nobody does.The crowd leans in,
half-drunk on hope,
half-dead on lies,
half-waiting for a punchline.

They clap anyway.
Because what else is there?
The same tired circus,
the same bruised lions,
the same half-assed clowns.

Someone lights a cigarette,
someone spits into the street.
The monkey thrashes,
and we all go under.