Photos gathered from junk shops and scrap yards in the Northeast when I was traveling by car there a few years ago. What exactly is the appeal of rusty old things? Do we think we can get a glimpse of the extent of time’s doings? Yet it’s not even a clock-tick in terms of imaginable natural history.


what take, a guess
your eyes signal something
I am sure I misunderstand (something)

deeply withheld, or lightly held
a joke, a prank maybe
crackling pinwheels, air

confined to the corridors of use
dissatisfaction is endemic
and so they rebel

somewhere in the body
of this dancing dervish this
sometimes lived life

a quiet fever, the curfew
nets a dozen of the little buggers
eyeteeth of our culture

Upton Tea Imports

Thurbo Estate Darjeeling Oolong

this tea is an attractive mix
of well-twisted, wiry leaves
decorated with downy silver buds

the light amber cup has a pronounced
sweet aroma with light fruity
notes a smooth, creamy

mouth feel introduces flavor
notes of stone fruit and nuts
which some have likened to pecan

All words © Upton Tea Imports
(The entire site is full of tea poems like this.)


are like dog feces
you should have to scoop
and dispose of them properly
after they pop out

strong opinions
are like ungrateful children
sassing you and calling you an old drunk
and running away from home
setting the fires of all your troubles
and the cops come roust you out of bed
inquiring as to their whereabouts
and the radioactive fallout leaves
your life uninhabitable for
one hundred thousand years

no opinion
on the other hand
left well enough alone
happily ever after

Cloud Prone

your puffed up gaudy display
does not impress me yet
seeing one without
seeing them all
I can wait a day or
a decade (how long have I got?)
and each one of them
belched off your assembly line
is better than the last
and I will withhold my applause
until it's over, or until
I am over

mommy, there’s nothing to do

it’s change that makes things different
from the things they used to be
and restlessness that makes us wander
sea to shining sea

it’s craving makes us want for want
and claim it all as needs
the things that clutter up the yard
rusting in the weeds

it’s worry makes us preempt war
with wars we have to wage
and thinking makes it seem okay
to justify the rage

it’s peace that makes us fidget
in a darkened, quiet place
and boredom yanks us to our feet
to run the human race

Here’s my workflowy note that led to the above verse:

It’s easier to think your way into
war than it is to fight your way out,
but mommy, there’s nothing to do.

… which is very much connected to this:

All of humanity’s problems stem from man’s inability to sit quietly in a room alone.
―Blaise Pascal, Pensées

oolong cools

the days seem long
though living

while the children
play leap frog
and the oolong cools
to the warmth of your lips
as I remember them

plots against its own containment
with every


thing forgotten

After yesterday’s crude and infantile rant
about things that don’t matter,
I felt I owed you a poem.

Starfish Enterprise

Star Trek: Reboot
Grudge. Against. The Federation.

Dear Hollywood,

Did you really just give us the same basic story three times in a row? Whiny, pathetic little galactic Bond villains lashing out at the Federation? You revived the crew of the original Enterprise, younger, shiny and beautiful, perfectly cast, and you give them nothing interesting to do but exchange body blows with bad guys on a blue screen of perfectly rendered CGI just like every other soul crushing superhero reboot?

Star Trek TOS was a formative thing in my young television watching life, so when I saw you flirting with the idea of returning to the spirit of the original show, with younger incarnations of the original cast, I did get a little excited. There was always a sense of awe and wonder in those old episodes, and they out-shone everything else on the tube in those days. The show’s startling originality is something I’m afraid that you will never have the guts to pursue, and the irony is bitter as you pick away at the bones of something truly original and use the scraps to produce shit. On behalf of Gene Roddenberry I just want to say, fuck you, Hollywood. Louis CK is right. You just make shit. You are a machine that spews shit.