The Lesson of a Year Away

As you may

or may not have realized

I am still alive

and after logging in again

I send this new testament to you now

at the dawning of a new age.

In my absence I have married,

carried burdens, sinned,

been redeemed and am about to begin

the final phase of my journey to a place

of rarified air, where, the likes of me

have seldom been.

All along I’ve felt the burden to produce

but choose instead to move

this ever-wending life

toward a kind of nicety

I never thought to hope for.

Sure, it was nice to dream,

but staring down the barrel of extreme

comfort and deciding whether to buy this

or that soft, sensual thing

the dream is real.

No longer do I have to wonder,

the time to sunder strife is here.

And I wonder a bit if you, my dears will suffer

as I apply my mind to other pursuits of life.

If this is the end, I hope you will remember

that the embers of my soul

that here I bore were in service of this goal

which now I enjoy.

Echoes of a past life

I can feel the blood din
fill my ears
no rational fears get in my way
to say that I would be of use
better knowledge older brain
confused disabuses my heart
of the part of it that says
to tear down my peace
and prepare to defend
wending abroad to sin again
in slaying those poor boys
who descend into war against their wills
cannon fodder for a mad shill
whose thrill in restoring empire
makes neighbors quake and prespire.
But in this invasion
Putin’s hubris betrays him
his troops can bleed
his tanks get stuck
he is weak, impotent, the mystique
of past power is gone.
Enemies emboldened be ineptitude,
no one now fears
the long, pathetic gears of this war machine
its trucks stuck in mire
a 40 mile convoy seered into our minds.
Putin’s pathetic power rests
in aging ICBMs. He stands on the shoulders
of a great culture, of shrewd diplomacy
and spirited defense.
He attempts to implement his magnum opus
but composing is not his suit
and aloof, he cannot contend
with the charisma of a professional
entertainer, his foe, who knows what it means
for the arts to inspire,
with fire, he has turned the globe
against his unwitting foe
and though his country was not particularly good
and his government was not remarkable
in death he’d now be martyred
in life, he’ll be forever unfriendly to Russia.
In miscalculating, Putin has forever damaged
the country he claims to defend
economically, in morale, and in his power
the hour is now to tear him down.
That is why the heart of me
longs to see another part
that echo of a past life
wherein in strife I cast
a stronger me.
There is still strength
I still have breath
the old soldier rests but is not dead.
But instead of turning my hands again to war,
I know that I have no more lifetimes to recover,
and though I am ashamed to remain in comfort
with Harry’s words ringing in my ears
I fear I must remain here.
But even though I won’t bear arms,
inaction would my psyche harm.
So here in words I praise defense
of home against unjust pretense
of values true and principle
of kith and kin and valuables.
And in my strongest vim condemn
aggressive attacking of one-time friend,
hubris, pride, and the self-absorbed,
who in assumption have ignored
the cries of people far and wide,
those who’ve died on both sides,
and the right to reside, side-by-side,
in glorious peace, the likes of which
has been seen since last we conquered hate.
May we once again abate
this latest iteration
and cleanse the Ukranian nation, whole,
of every last inept invader.

Recent Poetry Rejections

A Wall in the Desert

Rusty iron 20 feet deep

dipping its toes on the road

of Pacific fleet, replete with

daring, staring at these

who would dare to dream

and daring them to stream around.

On boats, in cars, around,

over, under, through…

dividing towns and drowning

those who would be connected

directed by those who misunderstand.

In desperation, no wall can quell

the spell of two hundred years of legend

that siren sound of secret dreams

the end of the wending continental journey

sojourning ever northward.

Who thinks a bit of fence can stop

what mountains have not hindered?

How far down do they think is so far

that the spirit will bend and turn?

How high is so high that rope ladders can’t be thrown?

How many cameras are so many

that they will be afraid to be seen?

Indeed it seems no obstacle is too great

so why instead of solving a problem

do dreadful delirious leaders long

for one band-aid to make the border unbreakable?

What makes them think that a wall, a factory, a treaty,

no matter how tall, expensive, or well-planned

could ever solve what we all wonder about:

if the heart of those who are other equal our own.

Four billion dollars pretend to protect us

from the poor and downtrodden longing to join us.

How many schools, bridges, and roads could we build?

What programs could we fund?

What wrongs could be undone?

When spending that sum on the good in the world,

What good would we then do through such investment?

Give me the school, give me good rules,

give me the bridge and rail. Give me a tale of goodness to tell.

And I will swell with pride at the greatness of my nation,

Who saw the downtrodden and did not shirk it’s duty to accept

Those whom other nations beset with endless regulation.

Let us be made better by the efforts of all

And if we fall, let it be together,

in an effort to make our small blue marble better.

Lest We

In regret, beset

letting the net

cast its wide cascades

of cutting blades

around our set of little hopes

The sloping edges

resist our gropes

as we struggle

neglecting friends

wending toward light

In forgetting

we forget the fight

that led to now

and somehow

that is more lost

Accosted by

a thousand guilts

we push ahead

until one day

little brain bugs at last

make the cost of surviving our struggle lost.

Does Everyone Feel This Way?

Sometimes I am sick

when I think of what I could be

at 33 Christ had died for our sins

Kurt Cobain left us at 27

I’ve had 11 years more than him

and yet, here I am.

I am imminently qualified,

sanctified, by friends glorified

and hypnotized by the divine rights

I’ve eyed since I had no hair on my chin.

Back then, there was no barrier

no door to enter in

WHEN I am older

I’ll make it.

I’ll take what I want.

I’ll put in the work and then…

I arrived at older.

I put in the work.

I got the degree.

I raised the kid.

And still there is this lid on my agency.

When can I be free

to live my dreams?

I have the talent.

I spend a thousand agonizing hours

applying to a thousand of the same forms

managed by the same company, and yet…

here I am, working for the man.

I do not have that spark

which having in the dark

would light the rest of my path.

I have the ability now to participate

in paying back my cost of living.

I can pay for the past but I’m not building a future.

What good is the money

if the honey is sucked out of life?

No, I must go. I must push; I must grow.

Knowing what I know is to know that

through the next window could be

the one word I type that enables the rest of my destiny.

And so, this is me.

Please, if you are willing,

share this fleeting thought.

My brief digression to allow

a release of the pressure

or knowing there’s a better life for me.

Find your friends who can be my patrons.

Lift me from this life of torture to the horizon of hope.

And in sharing the reality of my calling,

allow me to cope.

I have one hour

And I’m going to use it

This is the kind of thing I do

I abuse or use each minute

trying to find something to pursue

the issue, though I’m ashamed to admit,

is that focus is required

and attention divided

can never reside in

the houses of my creative mind.

So when I have this moment

the ease to appease exhausted brain

is to allow my waning attention to wander.

Aimless, I scroll

seeing the mundane and droll

fly by like so much blur.

It’s the nature we don’t see

as we hurry to our next destination.

Our toll for needing imaginary time

is the loss of the awe

that used to define our passage

from one place to the next.

Instead, we rush here or there

and when we arrive

at several times the speed of a walk

we sit and wait for something to happen.

Then out comes the phone

and the scroll resumes.

I wish I had the strength

to instead create when my mind wants to walk away

but my body is forced to stay.

I wish I could resist the tempting

sway in my hips from side to side

as I decide that my friends are too political for my taste.

I should be writing, the numb, soft, refrain

behind the eyes that glaze

as I watch the mindless get rich

providing our Soma.

Help me, oh strangers of note

give me the same hit my brain gets

from my mindless stroll

through the whims and desires of the droll.

Submit a like, a comment, a share,

put me in your pocket and make your significant other aware.

Reign in, I pray, my chagrin for just one day

by not leaving me here.

Hear thou, I say, that in my dismay

I despair, for this affair has already gone on too long.

It’s too late.

This is the direction of our fate.

Awaiting some catastrophic event

we can never allay or sate the hunger

this day, for our hate to quake

the foundations we laid

short of persuading

one for another

the other to stay.

So, welcome, my friend,

in my hour of power, I pray

that you spend just this one moment and say

I need not note the Kims, Khloes or other K’s of this world.

Instead, let me taste of the voice of your mind

and be my guide as I reside this day

in a brain that’s not mine.

Let me find in this hour’s peace

the design that makes me see

the piece of God that is in thee.

Successful Genre-Bending Application Letter

I rediscovered the letter below today, from a time when I was considering leaving my PhD program, for an MFA in Creative writing. I was feeling the pinch of having to learn a new way of writing and I think we all contemplate running away when we’re growing. In this case, the cover letter took the form of a dialogue. I was accepted but decided not to go. The letter reader told me it was probably the best cover letter he had ever read, so, having re-read it today, and seeing that it held up, I thought I would share it with you all.

Anthony Albright

For Whoever Is Reading:

Me: Have you ever felt that sensation called flow?

You: Flow?

Me: Ya, I heard once that it was the point at which the enjoyment derived from an activity is equal to the effort expended to do it.

You: I guess I’ve never thought about it…

Me: It’s like I’m doing something on stage or writing something and all of the sudden I feel it.  I hear the harp music…

You: The harp music?

Me: Ya—it’s like not quite Chariots of Fire, but like dramatic underscore.

You: That’s flow?

Me: I think so.  So have you ever felt that?  Because like, I feel like I want to teach that.

You: How could you?  You can’t really even describe it.

Me: Well, I mean, I did describe it, but I feel like it’s more of a conversation.  Like if I were to be directing a show and it’s rehearsal right?  I see something, I hear the harps and I stop everything and point at the actors and say, “That’s it!  Flow!”

You: I get that, but how can you be sure they’re feeling it too?

Me: I guess I can’t… but there’s a palpable energy there right?  Maybe just the effort of naming it—maybe that’s how you get power over it?

You: And that’s what you want to do?  Get power over flow and help people find it?

Me: Yes—I mean I don’t know that it’s quite me having power over it, but simply revealing that thing in people…that state.  That’s what I want to do.

You: So why the MFA?  I mean…you’re in a Phd program right?  That’ll get you in the classroom, won’t it?

Me: I mean—ya but…  It’s like there is something special about the arts.  The power to unify—to reveal?  Ya, I could finish my Phd in Rhetoric, Writing, and Culture, but what would that do?  I’d probably get a job teaching freshmen English somewhere and there’s absolutely nothing wrong with that and I could even throw in a creative assignment or two, here and there…but…

You: But–?

Me: But it isn’t where I BELONG.

You: No, I’m going to hold you to an objective answer.

Me: …I Feel in-flow sometimes when I’m teaching.  I’ve been trying for a long time just to get in front of a class…but I can do that every day now and it’s just not enough.  I long for creative outlet…that ephemeral incandescence of the artistic act.  The Phd is just so…

You:                            Academic?

Me:                                                        –Rigid!  I don’t have a problem putting in the work, but I wish sometimes that I could just put down my critical looking glass for a moment and show people what I mean.  –Example—I wrote a paper about the homosexual tension between Aufidius and Coriolanus in Shakespeare’s Coriolanus.  Exciting, right?  Wrong!  Couldn’t fit in all the sources my editor thought I should have read to write about the subject.  Couldn’t find all of them!  But it’s right there!  I mean, “Let me twine mine arms about thy body?”  Come on!  Aufidius clearly wants Coriolanus’ body.  I just couldn’t find a way to say it in the right way…for the editor…

You: You know, even creative writing has a structure.  Sometimes it’s pretty rigid.

Me: I know—I…just wish I could come up with some way to blend genres in some sort of meaningful way.  I wish I could figure out a way to use the audience expectations of a genre to my advantage.  Like, I wish I had the freedom to break into poetry in the middle of a critical essay—or like act out the steps of writing a research paper so my students could see themselves doing it, the same way people fall in love with Juliet in the theatre.

You: Why don’t you?

Me:                               –what?

You:                                           –do those things…

Me:                                                                             –pfft…I mean, I’ve tried.  I wrote a novel in the style of some of my readings for a Medieval Literature class.  It was probably the single most proud hand-in of my life.  The prof didn’t seem to care though.  More often than not, when I try to do something creative with my classes I’m met with skepticism.

You: Say I let you have some freedom to do some of those things?  What would you do?

Me: I’ve had a lot of projects rattling around in my head.  I’d like to do a reading of Coriolanus with vets of the most recent wars to bring out the underlying narratives about an ungrateful public tossing aside its warriors.  That’d be a stirring thing.  I’ve been kicking around the idea of writing a couple of follow-ups to that novel I mentioned.  I’d even like to do a more academic study of the correlation between literacy and access to live theatre in elementary students. 

You: Those are all good ideas.  What would you read…say to write a couple of follow-ups to your novel?

Me: Well, when I wrote the first one I was reading a lot of Arthurian romance.  I’d probably re-read some of that…you know, Troyes, Shakespeare, The Icelandic Sagas, maybe also play some Skyrim to get back into the feel of it, or explore some of the physical locations that the world of the novel is based on.  I’ve also been thinking about arranging a D&D campaign in that world.  That would help me write I think. 

You: Okay, and what would you do for practicum if that was your project?

Me: Well, I’m teaching freshmen English right now.  I’ve taught Intro to Theatre and Text Analysis.  I also helped out with a Stagecraft class and I’ve done some remedial reading training with a non-profit.  I could do any of those things.  What I really like doing is mentoring small groups of students in a specific project. 

You: Okay, what about transfer credit?

Me: I mean I have thirty credits from my MA and another twenty something from Phd work.  Some of that would probably transfer.

You: I don’t know, we’ll have to get back to you.  Thanks for stopping in to chat.

Me: Any time.

Freedom from the myth of the Free

The meeting that wasn’t

a meeting of the minds

reminds my insides

that, denied the right

to fly in straight lines,

I zig zag across the sky

flying from flight line

to flight line

designed to align

with my spirit but never

arising in priority defined

by the lies I believed.

Who can enlist a resisting mind?

Who can disguise the intent

to not be spent on unworthy signs?

When did we begin to believe

that seeing ourselves

as money-making machines

was more enlightened than

putting our actions to causes

in which we’re undeceived:

intent instead on enlisting the dead

to defend our freedoms

when we could see that self-same freedom

created instead of debated as we conceive

our new identities

as in-born free people of nativity?

Let us demand our promises

of perpetual self-determination

the nation inflated not in our minds

but in realizing our ideals.

Let us feel free to be free,

replete with unimpeded identity

and value in each other the diversity

that makes us see the path forward

toward a greater collective destiny.

More Recent Poetry Rejections

Coffee

Oh nectar

my Hector

protector of the city of my mind:

coffee, my coffee, only through you can I

be free. Consuming thee, likens me to a star

burning bright, shining free, replete with the potential

destinies of the lives brought forth in the duration of my glow

but slowly, I begin to darken. The cold takes hold

and the crash comes crippling the lives

I once held inside my glow,

until one day,

an injection of new plasma flows

straight into the throes of my erupting corona

and I’m telling you, it makes me feel like I can shine brightly

again, and the virtuous cycle continues, and I am who

I am because coffee is who it is.

The Contents of my Cupboards in Covid Lockdown

Ramen, soy flavored. That other name doesn’t work anymore.

Larabars. Do these have an expiration date? Tastes like yes.

Saltines. Never taste any different.

Graham crackers. Taste like the dust in my cupboards after 2 days.

Green Beans. From back in college. Thanks mom. Moved with them ever since.

Lots of pasta. No sauce. Sad, really.

Peanut Butter. Try a spoon with coffee. Still not eating much, but so much better!

Wilted salad kit. Gonna keep you in the fridge so if someone sees, they know I eat it.

Dishes. Not ready to eat those yet.

Cups. Good containers for coffee. Haven’t run out of that yet.

Marshmallows. I know, I know, but I don’t care. They’re too good.

That’s it. That’s everything.

Looks like Pad Thai again tonight.

Recent Poetry Rejections

Friend with no Benefit

Hello old friend.

Why come you so quickly back?

Attacked, I retract

the boldness with which

I mistook you for gone.

I’ve only buried you.

But you kept digging,

gnawing, struggling,

and now you’re back.

Aback I am taken,

for having been mistaken

that my lack of security

might interact with

the fact of my absurdity.

You’ve churned in me

ever since I thought you were gone.

But your power has only grown.

Now, though I know you

I’ve forgotten: foggy dreams

seem to obscure my memories

of how I buried you before.

I closed the door

but didn’t lock it.

And now, you’re standing here before

me. You drip the wet of your mess on my floor.

I’m sure I can resist but I’m tired.

I’ve tried to realize the mess you make.

You take and take and take.

But now that I see you, I mistake you for a friend.

And down our path we wend again.

And in the end, I’ll remember

what I got rid of you for.

But it won’t be before

I’m on my knees,

wiping up the mess you made on my floor

once more.

The Lie(f)

If honesty is freedom

we’re all in lockdown.

Brought low by our boldness

to speak we seek to be

understood but in our waking

to humanity’s sin all around,

we’ve found our neighbors

too guilty not to live in fear.

Seared into our minds

the confessions of wayward souls

who seek our forgiveness

but reveal their scars

compel us to hide ours.

What would my hurting neighbor think

to know that I too was on the brink?

How much pain do I dare inflict

on friends until they begin to distrust

the rusty joints that make up

my tree of life?

In strife can we still enter in

to fellowship one with another

when I’m aware my neighbor

is sleeping with an other?

And if they begin to understand

the evil that lies within

will they still call me friend?

Will they clutch their pearls tightly

as I walk by, unsightly me?

No, my fear is too great,

the cost of this freedom too high.

I will live rightly and abide in my lies

deprived of this freedom

prescribed by one who does not know

the cries inside the souls of my eyes.

Do not Trudge

Oh my friend

what gifts I could give

if you would but live

in the shelter of my wisdom.

I too was a kid.

I get it. I know.

All the things you are feeling:

they’ve blown through my heart also.

If I could somehow let you know all that I know

without subjecting you to the sorrow that made me grow

you know I would.

If I could, I would have stood in the way

and taken that pain again.

I know how. But you my soft and naïve friend,

how could you possibly know

the depths into which you will descend?

Why invite it?

Why not let me help?

The sweltering, searing, pain

pressing out on your skull:

the ants in your veins,

I know you just need to break away

but I don’t want to let you go.

We don’t all make it, you know.

This journey consumes some, maybe most

and as I roast my emotional brain

on the spit of your ego

I don’t know how I’ll handle your pain.

May you quickly be reined in

with compassion and enter in

to the recovery that comes

in humble reflection

and finally shed the need

for your complexion so hollow.

And follow instead the path

where wrath and anger and hurt

cannot tread. Where negative emotion is dead

and where, instead,

you rejoin those who love you:

those who will be your drug instead.

Earthling Doesn’t Bother

You leave the testing facility and burn your bridge with the Captain. You join the freighter Raphael.