I write poetry, sometimes. I've never done it consistently - I find trying to force a poem when I don't have one just makes me kind of miserable, and I don't have any particular aspirations of fame, so I'm content to just write them when I feel the need to. These are some I feel proud of.

The final poem on this page ("Motel Bathroom") is gory, fair warning.

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Poem About a Good Night's Sleep

[ sep 4, 2021 ]

We went out into the field of long grass. I held the lantern while she sought a place to nest and at last made herself one.

    — Thank you.

I piled dirt over her.

    — Thank you.

I piled heavy stones over her.

    — Thank you.

I dug until I could no longer see her form and the poppies marched up the hill. Then it was done. I knelt down and lay my hand against it and felt its side rise and fall with warm breath.

    — [ Very faint, as from a distance ]

    — I'll sleep well tonight.

This poem came to me, almost fully-formed, as I was dozing off. I made myself get up as quickly as possible to write it down before it got away from me. I think it's my favorite thing I've written.


[ oct 31, 2020 ]

there was a scattering of claws
on tile.

i pressed my body to the ground,
twice-time pulse -
    yours or mine? -
brushing my throat.

i held my breath,

waited for the punchline.

As I was writing this I was reluctant to make the final word "punchline", but I couldn't think of anything better. In hindsight I'm glad I chose what I chose.

Spacing is important in my poetry and this is a good example.


[ june 10, 2023 ]

It was my first northern winter and i didn't know i was cold.

Ghost Ship

[ unknown ]

I keep seeing you in the kitchen, making coffee - there's mud in your teeth, when you smile at me.
I just wish you'd clean up the tar that blooms around you. I wish you'd wipe your footprints from the creaking floor.

You just tell me,

It's 3 AM, dear;
Let's go back to bed.

This one was inspired by an asofterworld strip. I was never entirely happy with it.

We Went into The Ground

[ autumn, 2020 ]

we went into the ground.

there was no meaning to it, no poetry,
no grace. but we went down
into the soil, where it was dark and cool, where the winter couldn't find us.
the ground froze.
we froze too.

most came out and saw the sun again -
    squinted our eyes into the clean light, strangers.
some stayed where they were.
we broke the ground and took them up,
into the fire, the headlights,
where the ice melted in their blood and they shivered like newborns.

the last few did not stir again.

we went into the gronud.

It feels strange to read this one back.


[ sep 20, 2020 ]

beat yourself against the walls
palms down
nails clawing the carpet.

thrash like a dying animal
swimming paddle through mildew.

feel your bone-latches unhinge.
sprawling reptile in the twilight of your days

2020 was the first of a few increasingly bad years for me. Reading this back, it feels very melodramatic, especially compared to how my mental state would develop, but I was eighteen (and had just read Beowulf). I have to forgive myself.

I've never shared this one before.

i have a lot of feelings about werewolves and the minotaur

[ june 10, 2023 ]

i was howling at the moon
i was howling at myself
i was

i was howling

i was howling and there was nobody
i was howling and there was somebody looking
i was howling and there was and there was somebody listening

i was howling and there was somebody in the maze listening
i was

i was in the maze and there was somebody listening

Title deliberately lowercase. "We Went Into the Ground"'s younger brother, I think.

Anecdote from the Nevada Boundary Line

[ 2019 ]

The land rolled down in smooth waves for miles, a distance made deceptively short by the dips hidden by their rises, towards a slice of blue so hard and rich one could strike it and find it solid. Around its flanks the earth abruptly rose into ragged peaks, sharp edges silhouetted against each other until they reach the wall of the world. Above, a thin layer of clouds form their pale twin, and a massive shadow drifts overhead, paling the ruthless subtropic sun. The ground is thinly furnished in low shrubbery, sometimes patches of thin grass, which as the distance increases blurs into the ground until it is one subtly mottled mass. True green is rare in the desert. Plants come in many shades - pale minty greens, dry yellows, and dark pine colors, everything subtly washed out as though to match the pale gray-yellow earth.

In 2019 my family moved from Arizona to Nevada. I wrote this on my phone's notes app while we took a break somewhere near the state boundary; I had gotten out to stretch my legs and was struck by the view. Does this count as a poem? Maybe, but it also doesn't matter if it does or doesn't. I wonder if it's still in my notes app, in 2023. I have the same phone.

There is a second anecdote that I wrote much less spontaneously and I am less fond of.

Motel Bathroom, San Bernardino, California

[ feb 6, 2021 ]

You can smell it from outside.

Mold scars
    shelter in corners.
Fetid water
    for flies to drown.
Long hair
    clogs the bathroom drain.

This is not a place of honor.

I've never shared or published this one before because of how grotesque it is. I no longer remember where it came from. I do know I had wanted to tell a story and set a scene in as few words as possible, just to see if I could.