december 1999

December 1999

The sun settles behind the mountains
as we wind around another bend
of the valley road.

The SUV's dash flashes in dim neon
as it illuminates
its controls.

Music is on high
as my two best friends are caught
amidst the throes of laughter

stemming from their cacophonous
attempt at singing

We have been driving for almost fourteen hours
and are mere minutes from our destination:

Our final home of a millennium
as the greased dial grinds to "20"
Where better to be when Y2K hails?

I am in the front passenger seat.
I am looking out its window into nothingness.
I am crying.

[LBP] Bristol Wants The Food

Today, I’m going to start a series called “Lunch Break Poems,” or “LPB.” I was going to call them “One Hour Poems,” but–alas–I don’t always take an hour for my lunch break. But I do eat! So, Lunch Break Poems.

And really, many of my “attempts” at “poetry” are things written during a break of some sort, or even in my head during a few moments of silence. Therefore, this isn’t really the first lunch break I’ve constructed a poem, or “ditty” as I’m apt to call them, but it is the first “Lunch Break Poem,” because, you know, I never titled them as such until now. Obviously.

Today’s inaugural LPB poem is, “Bristol Wants The Food,” because, well, my dog Bristol wants the food. AllTheTime. It’s written to the tune of Whitey on the Moon, by Justin Hurwitz and Leon Bridges:

bristol 50505075

It’s Six-Thirty AM
And Bristol wants the food

I go use the bathroom
And Bristol wants the food

I put on some warm clothes
And Bristol wants the food

I take her for a walk
And Bristol wants the food

I take her back inside
And Bristol wants the food

I watch her whirl around
And Bristol wants the food

I fill a cup of food
And Bristol wants the food

I pour it in her bowl
And Bristol wants the food

I hear her scarf it down
Now Bristol wants the treat.

will you notice?

Shadow 5075

I'm not a chef
But I cooked you a meal

I'm not a gardener
But I grew you a flower

I'm not a musician
But I composed you a song

I'm not a photographer
But I took you a photo

I'm not an author
But I wrote you a story

I'm not a poet
But I wrote you this poem

I'm not an optimist
But I think you'll notice me.


clouds smaller 2

I like to let my poems speak for themselves, therefore I’m not particularly keen on prefacing them with any sort of context such as this. However, I feel it necessary to break that wall now so that I’m clear on one thing: I’m not depressed. If you’ve read within this space before, you’re aware that I enjoy writing about mental health–particularly my experiences with it.  This is one such occasion. As always, thanks for reading:

A thought is lurking

Inside me

I'm aware of its 


But I've chosen to 

Ignore it

Not so much ignore

As push it

Beyond other thoughts


Defending myself
From its pain

This is unhealthy

I know this

What else shall I do

To forestall?

Away, away please

Go away

Past the clouds into 

Deepest blue

I'm certain we will

Meet again

Until then, away

Away you.




What is eternity like?
What does one do forever?
Does one get bored?
Does one do the same thing daily?
Do days even exist anymore?
Do things begin or end?
What would happen to you?
What if you’re not there?
I’m not so sure about eternity.
I’m sure hoping you’re there.