Lovesick Sonnet

Ten thousand stars. Ten thousand half-lit stars, shifting
In the dark. Ten thousand lighthouses shine
On in the dead of night, and
Half of them or more are already gone.

Not ours, though. I see two specks,
Almost touching, and boy do they twinkle.
I bet they first met each other some million light years ago,
And light bent and waves burst and colors…

Well, I thought I saw them. It’s hard to keep track
Of everything up there. I know I saw
Them once though, buried deep in that brown. That
Planet-core, tree trunk, elemental brown.

If I could bottle that look in your eyes,
I’d never have to look up again.

Company Van

We stop washing the company van and take a break as the rain starts to downpour. I’m the oldest shop boy at 23, and while the others start shooting hoops and slamming PBR, I sit and watch. They seem so self-assured. Even when they tell you, “I don’t care,” which they do all the time they do it as if they’re planting a flag in an unknown territory. “I don’t care. This is mine. Alley-oop!”

Earlier today I spent over an hour stressing about the 60-year-old mechanic being a better writer than I am. It’s not the first time, and I know it’s not the last. If I could just force myself to sit down and work on my future instead of worrying about it, I’m sure I’d be better off. I could be calm enough to make small talk, drink more than one beer, or actually write something.

I always think about what my life would be like if I had chosen a different path – gone to school out east or stayed broken-up with my high-school girlfriend. How famous would I be? How many women would I have slept with? I’m rich from inheritance, but still. The other guys are now in the zone, calling out coverage, wet t-shirts sticking to their shoulder blades. I better go finish the van they’ll probably be playing for a while.

Two Ski Brewski

Two Ski Brewski
Deckers Draw Sluice Juice
Grape Sludge Yub Nub
Favorite beers of mine.

Dig deep write well
bedrock start work
foundation laying ground
hang the clothes to dry.

Type fast try to last
three minutes left.
Two-thirds of an hour down
wrists aren’t stressed.

Running low just like
the gas in the tank.
Something special I assure you
nope —

I ain’t.