January 15, 2014

My mother's uncle
rode an exercise bike
every day
He took the stairs
And he read books

He died
too soon
And I'm worried
my mother,
putting 2 and
2 together,
will never exercise

Rigor mortis

November 29, 2012

has set in
for the support beams of an
old ski jump in Sarajevo

Concrete hands are gripping hard
Holding up the sagging track
They were the venue
for the main attraction at the
1984 Winter Olympics.

I see the athletes barreling
down from the top
adrenaline high
ambitions high
triumph, sweat, defeat
everything was laid on that jump

Four years after that, the Olympics
took place in another city
in another country
in some other part of the world
A new ski jump
(probably a whole complex)
was erected
And the pillars of Sarajevo
weren’t even afforded the dignity of

The dreams of the skiers
are probably long gone,
accepted or just forgotten
But I imagine the columns remembering,
with some excitement,
their own sense of victory
until the instant of their death

There’s a word

June 15, 2012

the sportscasters use
frequently during the game:

this power play tonight has been a microcosm
of their struggles of late
this game is really a microcosm
of the whole season
eh, Bobby?

That comment itself seems
to me
a microcosm of every announcer
I’ve ever heard:
the maybe-profound observation
followed up with
“eh, Bobby?”

(subsequently, this poem is a microcosm
of all of mine:
I don’t know where it’s going yet,

but really,

how many possibilities can there be?)

Seems like every day is a microcosm
of the week,
the week of the year,
the year of the decade,
the decade of the lifetime

I wake up, spend the day
It has its ups and downs
I go to bed

Spring explodes into summer
It has its ups and downs
Leaves fall

Spent how many years in school
It had its ups and downs

now I’m expected to start something new
a life, I guess
But I’ve already got the Spark Notes:
there will be ups
there will be downs
there will be another ending

Like I said,
I don’t know where this is going,

but really…

A phone call

November 20, 2011

I received a call from the Easter Bunny

once when I was young

Probably some stunt my parents set up

and payed for

He asked me how I was

and what I was hoping for in my easter basket

I remember standing in the living room


Not because I was star struck

or particularly irreverent

or even ill-mannered

I was just confused

as to why the Easter Bunny would call me

He ended the conversation with

“Happy Easter!”

“k. ¬†seeya.”

What a disrespectful little shit

the Easter Bunny must have thought I was

He was probably a little confused himself

Probably called hundreds of kids

Respectful children who squealed

with excitement over the wire

I have to imagine if

for some reason

Mr. Death or God himself called for me

I’d react similarly

bewilderment maybe


“uh, hey. ¬†what’s up.”

and maybe they’ll be caught off-guard

and just leave me alone

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