Hey, so apparently at least one actual human has seen this thing! Well, either that, or a next-gen spambot. Either way I should probably upload some actual content.
First, news; the reason I haven’t been updating is because I’ve been working (yay!). Between a couple shows at Old Creamery Theatre here in Iowa and a contract to write Reginaldo Haslett-Marroquin’s memoirs I haven’t had a whole lot of brain power for the sort of short-form work that works as blog posts.
And here’s a little poem I wrote in the car. I tend to write poetry when I don’t have the time to do anything else. I doubt it’s of much interest to anyone (myself included) but it keeps me playing with language.
Drive out to Norway
Iowa and buy a corncob pipe from a man
with one good hand
and no good eyes.
He made it himself
he’ll tell you so proudly.
Accept the tobacco he passes you
even if you don’t smoke.
and watch the blackbirds launch and fade
circle, fall, and fade again.
The sun will hang in the sky
on a long iron nail
while the corn fields sweat away
the seconds until dark.
This isn’t a fairy tale town
he won’t keep you there
while no time passes
and you spend years just watching.
Eventually you will feel hungry
he won’t make you guess his name.
You can leave whenever you want to
which is never
or maybe later, just drive away
and don’t look back and forget about Norway
so far from the sea.
But keep the pipe and the taste
of tobacco sweet and lingering
sunsets over fields of corn.