A Review (Kinda) of David Bowie's Blackstar (Who Am I Kidding? It's a Poem)

My great friend Nick Zaino has a cool website called The Department of Tangents wherein he writes music and horror film reviews and publishes comedy interviews.

Nick put out a call for friends and colleagues to write music reviews of records he missed in 2016. I said oh! I could write a review of David Bowie’s Blackstar! As I have been listening to it on a continuous loop for the entire year! And Nick responded great, yes!

I sat down to pen my review and realized I had no idea what to write. What was I thinking? So I wrote a poem instead. And Nick, lovely soul that he is, indulged me and published my poem right alongside the words of folks who obviously know how to write a record review.

Take a peek for my original poem. And explore The Department of Tangents, which is chock full of fascinating items (including interviews with literally every comedian you can name, for real). Happy New Year!


What I Learned in the Orchard

I watched an old man
pruning apple trees in December
laddered during snowfall
straining for the farthest branch
and realized I had not considered
that quickening is a year-round
lifelong commitment to growth
through paring back

So you
bygone year of want
you my bygone sister
buried expectations
in awful post-truth
It’s snowing

Still I ascend the highest rung
and start cutting
limbs leggily reaching for sun
because flowering requires tending
brings fruit for sustenance
and only now have I learned
what fruit from labor really means
That man has taught me a few things

For Mama Zen’s Words Count in the Imaginary Garden. My poem went long but I beg forgiveness as frankly that never happens! :)



So the longest darkest night
already came and went
the lowest Fahrenheit mark
accomplished last year
sooty depths of insecurity
experienced under a waxing moon
in a long-ago bone season
so we don’t have to worry anymore

File them all away
alongside the giddiest infatuation
scatterings of September chicory
sweet balsamic on the tongue
baby-milk breath
dust suspended in long sienna rays
all just under the surface
for retrieving in discomfiting times

Sharing with the Real Toads on the Tuesday Platform, typically late but at least I wrote something! *cheer*



He proclaims
Is this time
Great again
Soulless prevarication
From he who cries Wolf

Micro-poetry in the Imaginary Garden


Fugitive Justice

weepy eyes cloud glass
blurring troth for triumph
nothing to be realized
at half-light

Minor-chord score
obscures understanding
in endless gloaming
all the sad songs are so sad
the dark places pitch-dark