I Killed My Layout

i know all (4) of you come here
for the layout.
you probably noticed it died.
(it was an accident, i swear. my fault but an accident)
thanks johnny, it was nice while it lasted.

chris h

In Unrelated News

i struggle with the telling
(of anything really)

starting and
stopping

and coming round again to say the same thing over in another way
re-wording it (repeating it)

i see the words of others
the (often lovely, sometimes beautiful) explanations
of their paths through time and space
(and their existence outside of the aforementioned)

wishing to emulate i only plod
the circles of repetition

so i've given up
resigned myself to the idea
of being one only responsible
for calling attention
(to situation, irony, pitch, or detail)

and trusting that the light (slant) i cast
will serve my purpose
that the hearer of the word
will look through the same lens
as the speaker

now for the unrelated

i bought myself a fountain pen and it has brought me great joy in the short time i've had it. the few of you who read this are all like me in that we are all old men inside-whether it be scotch, cigars, pipes, etc. i bought one for johnny as a memento of his time in america. i tell you this for no other reason than to encourage all of you to join me in this, my newest found joy.

chris h

I've Gotten to the Point

that i feel comfortable with:

no capitalization
stylistic influences
alcohol
marriage
mayflower
male pattern baldness
friends in africa
multi-hued personality
selfdeprecation
work
grammatical correctness
joel winters
arkansas heat
never being the next joe dimaggio
this blog
etc.

chris h

There is no New Thing Under the Sun

i'm not one to post someone else's feelings verbatim
but i come back to this poem time and again.
and i apologize if i butchered the typography

The Apple Tree in November Twilight can Sleep Now

her journey over for a season

(she did not seem to be moving, but she was).

With her humming with bees I followed her all the way.

First the girl averting her gaze, ashamed,

then her infatuation in April and the shawl of blossoms,

ceremony of her long silence after three days of rain.

I remember the dignity of her deliberations,

how she shook day after day when the downpour

insinuated perfect beauty was a waste.

How she appeared in profile, transfiguring light and shade.

Then the sudden coming together under cover of night,

which I missed (but imagine against her wishes),

withdrawal into contemplation, a windless shape-blameless.

The worry. And her giving birth.

And the pride she surely took in holding on

whisperings untranslatable to the visitor in his leather jacket

who stared up at her. What have you loved?

Where are the words for what you have done so skillfully?

I have learned purpose and endured.

--Dennis Sampson

believing that He who has begun a good work
will be faithful to complete it, in spite of me. amen.

chris h

This is the Hope We Have

i have marked myself in the manner
of others who also believe

chris h