Peaks Island, Maine

DADDY IS COLD

DADDY IS COLD-COME WARM HIM UP.

Nothing I do, nothing I feel,

feels like it did with you.
Who would dare suppose such a thing?

The twitching id of perpetual need,

a litany of denials—

life itself, a fragile compassion.

DADDY IS COLD-COME WARM HIM UP.

Nothing I do, nothing I feel,

feels like it did with you.
Who would dare suppose such a thing?

The twitching id, hungry, restless,

denying itself, devouring itself.
Nothing I do, nothing I feel,

feels like it did with you.


A litany of denials—

a shivering need—

life itself, an unanswered call.
A litany of denials.

Who would dare suppose such a thing?

Life itself—

DADDY IS COLD-COME WARM HIM UP.

Of all the things in this store—

packs of art supplies, joke collections,

a ceramic dish shaped like an alligator—

the kid chooses this.
A plastic possum, mid-smile, stuffed in a peanut,
wheels tucked beneath its shell,

a promise printed on the box:

Pull them back… Watch them go!

The kid grabs it off the shelf,

laughing like it’s the best thing in the world—
he holds it up to his dad, eyes full of wonder.

“Watch it go!” he says,

and with a flick of his hand,

the tiny wheels stutter across the counter.

I imagine a designer somewhere,

drafting the blueprint for this absurdity,

testing prototypes in a quiet room,

wondering if the world really needs it.

But the kid tugs at his dad’s sleeve,

laughing as the possum shudders forward.

And in this moment, yes,

the world needs exactly this.

Deland, Florida

Somebody sat here once.
Drank a beer, maybe.
Watched the waves do
what they’ve always done.

Now it’s just a chair,
tilted, half-stuck in the sand.
The ocean moves on.
The wind keeps blowing.

No big revelations.
No meaning to dig up.
Just the tide coming in,
the tide going out.

And if nobody comes back,
the chair will stay
until the sea takes it,
or someone else sits down.

New Smyrna Beach, Florida

The road pauses here, a breath held too long,
where the past drifts in like the smell of grease,
clings to the walls, the cracked vinyl seats,
ice melting in cheap whiskey, untouched.

The door wails like a lost chord in the night,
a bluesman’s lament bending in the wind.
Men with faraway eyes sit without speaking,
watching the clock melt minute by minute.

Memory flickers in the fluorescent hum,
faces blurred, half-formed, unfinished dreams.
A hand idly traces the bar’s old scars,
as if feeling for the line between what was and what could have been.

Outside, the wind rises, turns in on itself,
a thought abandoned before it was spoken,
a traveler passing through the dark,
caught between staying and vanishing.

Jackman, Maine

the sheets hang like tired ghosts,
draped over the line, sagging, waiting.
I watch them move, slow, lazy,
like they know something I don’t.

the sun beats down,
soap and sweat mix in the air.
I take a breath, deep and steady,
the wind hums something almost holy.

maybe this is enlightenment—
pinning up the mundane,
watching it sway,
waiting for something to rise.

but then the wind picks up,
a shirt flies off the line,
lands in the dirt,
so much for transcendence.

Colombo, Sri Lanka

sunlight kisses plastic skin,
lips frozen mid-thought—
but no thoughts ever come.

she leans into the world like she owns it,
but she owns nothing, not even herself.

shadows curl against the woolen weave,
a careless shrug stitched in fabric and pose.

too cool to notice, too empty to try,
just another hollow queen of display.

white-rimmed eyes, frozen in mid-glance,
survey the world with practiced boredom.

behind the glass, people move with purpose—
she holds none, and wears it well.

yet someone will stop and stare,
searching for meaning in her vacant grace.

and when night creeps in, she stays,
same pose, same stare, same nothing.

Portland, Maine

they stand without speaking
against the pale wall
without moving without asking
for anything

they have known hands
and the weight of the world
they have known the breaking
of frost into water

they do not wait
they do not wonder
they stand where they were left
and that is enough

outside the wind moves
somewhere the earth turns
but here
nothing is missing

Peaks Island, Maine

The sea has no memory,
but it leaves reminders—
bone, gristle, a mouth frozen mid-thought,
waiting for nothing.

Once, this thing had direction,
a current to follow, hunger to heed.
Now it lies where it was left,
a shape reduced to outline.

The sand does what it always does,
takes without effort,
makes room for the next arrival,
the next forgetting.

You stand there, hands in pockets,
as if there’s something to be done.
But the tide will return soon enough,
and take care of it.

New Smyrna Beach, Florida

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