Tag Archives: nostalgia

Dough

Rolled oats or miscellaneous other
possible cookie ingredients strewn
across the kitchen counter. Is “strewn” an
oats verb? I assume that there are proper
baking words one would use to describe the
sight of overexcited particles
of half-mixed batter splattered, scattered, or
whatevered. I’m not communicating
myself innately like the baked good I’m
making is able: one clear memory
for the sight of flour on the table; one
for the indelible smell from the hot
oven; another for the taste, homemade;
one for the love of someone feeding you.

Play Mat

This is one of those poems where today
I came across an unspecial image
or scene and it reminded me of a
long forgotten memory, and in my
writing them down—the juxtaposition
clearly being so profound—I promptly
discovered, uncovered, whatevered a
special and now unforgettable
aspect of life or truth or myself and
I had to share it with everyone
else or risk it not being real after
all, which would be a complete shame, and I
would only have myself to blame. Oh yeah:
a play mat; my lost racecars; growing old.

Singer

(for Christopher)

Days are spent forcing the connection, or
failing to make the connection,
between the pun-savoring boy
and the name of the man in the death notices.
Like quantum physics,
Angry Birds, and the notion
that dissent is only patriotic for some,
I can’t make sense of it.
These days I am deliberately haunted,
fully occupied with my own hero
worship, knowing (because I knew the boy)
that here is no one I could have
rescued. Here is no one who is owed
anything from me, let alone explanations,
or fantasies of reclamation. There is no one
point to go back to, to change the course
of events, to ascertain the exact moment
where an exchange could have stopped
me from reading his obituary.
You don’t have that power, I hear him tell me.
Why are you apologizing when we
haven’t spoken in 15 years? I nod.
I understand that I have made him a
phantom of circumstance, who listens
just to be polite.
The boy becomes the man
becomes the spectre in the film
I play in my head.
But there is no real possession.