Pose and Proetry love and rants


Too many people flippantly abuse the "flyover" states, apparently suffering the delusion that geography affects their moral sensitivity and intellectual acuity. I wrote this about a beautiful far-away land that's still called by its Seneca name: "Ohio"


  1. Ohio is my home. It has wide skies over flat fields, dark huddles of trees guarding the streams, and winter nights cold and clear as space. Straight county roads beckon you forward, yet take you nowhere, speeding past the bones and sinews of last year's crop, half-buried and abandoned. They yearn for the till to complete their turning, but are propped awkwardly upright by the frozen and stubborn ground, and only the quiet snow consoles them.

  2. We are running, cracking sticks with our boots, our laces dragging dead grass under the bright gray sky smeared yellow with fuzzy sun. The masculine wind, leading tango, gushes us forward and holds us back, spinning our hair into feral nests. The urges of Spring are within us, but coldness and frost without. We scratch our way through the brushes, and over ancient barbed-wire trampled, until we stand before a rise of reeds, tall and aloft like a cathedral, clacking and chattering the wind's rhythm. Breathing heavily, we slip slowly into the stalks and fall on our knees. I stroke below a cut on your cheek. Your hand cups my pulsing neck. Then the hollow reeds sway aside as we sink into the soft, fertile mud.

  3. unfinished

  4. unfinished