The Fog Upon Seneca
A Lament for Seneca When the fog returns, it remembers who we were before we woke. Author’s Note I grew up near places where fog felt almost sentient - where mornings seemed to breathe before we did. The Fog Upon Seneca came out of that sensation: the way certain landscapes hold our echoes long after we’ve left them. Seneca, for me, isn’t just a lake - it’s memory made physical. It’s what happens when grief takes on weather. The poem began as a simple image of mist rising from water, but I found myself returning to old streets, to houses th…
Quarter Nights & Greyhound Dreams - 1986
1986 was a year of rust - and prayer. I worked two jobs, three jobs, six days, seven if the Lord looked the other way. Didn’t rest, didn’t dream, just kept on like a broke-down Buick with a cough in its soul. That old '63 LeSabre - Blue as my mood, fading like hope - her grandma gave it, God bless her - and we rode it on fumes, on faith, on three dollars of gas at a time. Three bucks. You hear me? That’s a couple gallons and some change, back when gas still showed mercy. We rolled slow, so the needle stayed up, and the money didn’t run out…
The Wolfman on Lincoln Street
I was eleven, and the house was so quiet it felt like it had stopped breathing. Downstairs, my family was watching some dumb show - Dad in his easy chair, Skipper curled on his lap, my mother probably knitting, my brother and sister laughing at canned jokes from the set. I had my own show, upstairs, in the dim hum of my bedroom, the black and white TV I bought at a rummage sale for five bucks. The picture was small, but it worked if you hit the side just right. That night, The Wolf Man came on. Lon Chaney Jr. - big, sad eyes, that fog-soaked…
