[oil, gouache, and acrylic paintings [for sale, sold]]
[music [playing with Mere Harrach on May 20, softer drive]]
[writing [poems]]
[contact [instagram: @zach_tbd, email]]
[bio [st. louis, 1983, cv]]
[also [contact me for sales or commissions, click images for high-res versions, last updated 4/30/23]]
POEMS
Rain (3/1/23)
In Silence (6/1/22)
I Am Not Good For Nothing (5/13/22)
About Quitting (3/3/22)
Unsolved Mystery (2/13/22)
Action Scene (2/12/22)
Dead End Street (2/2/22)
Crooked Land (1/20/22)
Pool (1/9/22)
Dead Armed Pitcher was Barely Alive (1/9/22)
New Apartment (1/8/22)
Skip to my Lou (1/8/22)
Afternoon Ritual (1/8/22)
Dr. Howl (1/7/22)
Nature Doc on a Loop (1/1/22)
Out of this Tape Hiss Comes Some Light (12/29/21)
Loose Control (12/21/21)
Rain for A Moment, Spring 2023
rain on the tail of a blizzard
on the soaked wings of a bird
rain on tin, on the thin umbrella
on the cold lake
on the cold tent
rain, evaporate, then fall again
on the spot where he lays
like it has never rained before
howling wind of gathering remorse
pushing up under the floorboards
rain scatter our travel patterns
slippery green, serpentine
filling up the old ravine
up to the ankles deep, trembling
rain make us clean
rain unaccountably
overwhelm the systems of registry
undermine the efforts to understand it
slow down and drop thick
collide the cars and freeze on snow
rain down in the catacombs
rain mist on our lips as we kissed
offend the dead and spirits unseen
who dance the dance of unforgiveness
rain on our wasted years, on our last chance
rain until we are entranced
flash flood cover up the avenue
and pour down the stairs
sink both feet in the mud
step out of my tennis shoes
rain with no pause
scare the daylights out of all of us
give us a free car wash
catch fire in our dreams
In Silence
They’re still waiting
to unlock the gate
to the theme park we made
and turn on the rollercoasters
just for us
The machines would whir to life
in the dead of night
the time they prefer to work
when our bodies are on autopilot
when our conversation dries up for a while
Our midnight passes indicate
we are visitors from the mind
We shave our hair in the parking lot
and float into the park like holograms
Our dim shades look just right under
drooping strands of pale christmas lights
Tracing old paths toward the biggest rides
waiting in line in this emptiness
walking among the dead
and what was left for it
You and me, passing between our dreams
and my stomach is somewhere back there in a ceiling
I Am Not Good For Nothing
I am getting good at becoming nothing
You wouldn’t last three days living like me
You’d need something to happen
so badly
You would nearly do what
I couldn’t possibly
While you go do anything
I stop at nothing
to keep running on empty
Let what is the heaviest sink
in the deepest
sense of meaninglessness
it could change my mind
please change my mind
In the event of happiness
make no sudden movements
do not try to hold onto or
give a name to it
Avoid those notions
which suggest latent shapes of desperation
Act as though you don’t notice it
nothing will happen
eventually
who are we now
is the mystery
About Quitting
reading
How long can this last,
our pointless nightlong slog through
this soupy morass?
The soles of our shoes
are thickly coated with mud
and for what, a ruse?
Picking at this crud
with sticks that keep snapping off.
This path is a dud.
Now I have a cough
on top of holes in the gloves
I found in the trough
Glasses all fogged up.
What if we went home, sweet home?
But who can we trust?
My mouth starts to foam
at the thought of how to leave.
Can I be alone?
I think I believe
there is comfort in structure.
I need some routine.
But I don’t know much.
Merely waking up some days
can take some gumption.
If a voice would say
Right Now, Immediately
Full Retreat, Post Haste
Could I hide my glee?
Should I be stifling my joy
while full on sprinting?
When I was a boy
I would laugh until it hurt
.
Patched up corduroy.
An iron-on shirt
with characters from Star Wars.
Nails covered in dirt.
Now my throat is hoarse
From yapping about what ought
to be, in due course
Our expected lot,
Rather than the swamp water
and negative thoughts.
New cannon fodder
hanging on to ropes dangling
from helicopters.
Put a fork in me
How long would I sing a song
which has no ending?
I guessed for too long
at questions with no answers
but was I all wrong?
Unsolved Mystery
reading
On tonight’s
unsolved mystery
An ordinary man
facing an uncertain destiny
pulled back the curtains
and dug beneath the leaves
a car pulled into the alley
an unrecognized driver
who brought in some groceries
the blinds closed
the smoke alarm was out of batteries
the garbage can was overflowing
the dog kept whining
the front key didn’t fit the lock
the basement door is wide open
the faucet and the drain are corroding
the botched job is still unfinished
the siding is crumbling
the open window on the third floor balcony
the broken statue in the morning
He parked up there near the river
near last night's campfire
it’s still burning
there is a road that goes over and around
someone is watching from the trees
observing an actor in an reenactment
describing the criminal act as witnessed
to a detective in a too-long tan overcoat
that brushes up against the wet grass
and the mud keeps them sliding
across the scene of the crime
this case has become rather slippery
wouldn’t you agree
the slate of evidence has been wiped clean
If you or anyone you know has any information
about the cases you've seen
please contact your local law enforcement authorities
and tell them that you will be investigating
because you can’t count on them to follow-up competently
or promptly
or meticulously
or at all
Tell them that you’re filming a movie
a documentary about what may have been seen
when one loud blue night by the cataracts
the spectacular cascades were hiding
the end of a span of life
a body with a water-logged chest
the opposite of emptiness
could not catch a breath
when their life depended on it
and so they found the very end
and sunk into the bed
Action Scene
I heard a speedboat caught a wave and hopped
right over a dock
It started in the ocean
It landed in the bay
Someone was underneath the boat when it happened
I’ve never seen anything quite like that, they said
It went right over my head
They were dry and he was soaking wet
I heard this same boat sped straight through the inlet
luckily the beachgoers took notice and fled
as the lifeguard took a video from their lookout platform
the backside of an 18-wheeler opened up
and extended a long metal ramp
the ship hit the lift and slid into the big rig
skipping from water onto land
mechanical amphibian
the truck took off and left a shower of gross smoke
I heard a firetruck showed up in the aftermath
and as the crowd was dispersing some drunk man said
What are they gonna do, put out the ocean?!
and no one laughed or made eye contact
so this guy yelled it again, and his voice cracked -
Are they gonna put out the wa-ter?
the captive audience cringed and dispersed at greater distances
and a little kid kept asking Wait, what happened?
Dead End Street
What a mess
What a horrible mess
There will be the rest of it, shortly to follow
Where to begin
The ending started as a walk
we talked of the “immediate future”
It started in the garden of Eden
Adam dreamed of an Eve
and was relieved of some of his burdens
He needed help and they felt no shame
Dead end street
The people in the steeple are trying to meet
the one-winged angel with mangy hair and sores on his feet
to be blinded, to be brought to their knees
once and then twice again
Dead end street
Dead end street
People are dying here on Dead End Street
Here is the rest
It’s a mess and we’re out of time
An archeologist digging through our wreck
might be disappointed with what they find
They won’t find these words
long since windswept
the way we were
the way you are
cannot be captured
I wonder what I have left
and when to leave
I am starting to believe in some things
that didn’t make much sense to me before
Crooked Land
There was a decent family in a crooked land
and a series of bad hands which came to surround them
They lived within a kind of bewilderment
they thought they were outside of it
One day it fell heavy upon their home
as they sat on the porch
They were watching the evening’s oranges and blues
and noting the range of lavender hues on view
but mostly they were listening
to cicada waves piling up on each other
picking up the patterns in their rhythms and
getting their whole story and then some
the decayed phrases phasing and fading
papering over the seams of the loop
so there are no beginnings and
no endings
no ins or outs
only an old dog’s tail which keeps wagging
every which way smells like wet grass shavings
Come and get it while it’s still hot
But life never really existed like that
Their family lives on the corner of a block
near the end of the book
as a form of epilogue
with the rising tension resolved
the plot no longer thickens
They see their friends and warmly thank them
It’s as cold as the dickens out there, isn’t it
These are the ones to come home to
the ones who have been missing you
That’s the story we like to tell ourselves
not how it really was
The quiet part has been said quite loudly now
Can we roll the credits yet?
Can we hear an old favorite in a new arrangement?
We know something’s wrong
but we don’t have the same explanation for it
do we have to have the same explanation?
I remember when we did
Do we at least agree that the sun has gone down
Nobody says anything
I’m left wondering what is obvious
We could all use a breather here
When we step outside the shadows are detached
from the objects they once represented
they settle down into valleys once well lit
and grow stronger still where there is a sense of dread
I think they’re leading us to the bottom of a well
I’m strangely compelled to go along with the plan
to respect their wish to put a lid on it
to let it be covered up, to let it sink in
that I don’t have the faintest sense of what I’m dealing with
the window is closing
Purple and black and darker still until
the chill of my breath is the only thing that’s moving
Something small enough to take full account of
I’m sunk
I’m floundering
I’ll speak to you in the morning
It’s true I’m not listening to the rustling wind under your door
whispering that the inevitable is approaching
I’m reading the news, I’m pressing some coffee
The sun will come up soon and we’ll all be talking
Pool
Movies on black and white tvs in barrooms
Fred Astaire smiles and a man plays a flute
I was watching him dance in a musical on mute
When a coquette with a curly q
sticks three quarters into a table which removes
a stop inside of it and prompts sixteen balls to
slide down a slope to her waiting hands
If I’ve seen it twenty times here, I’ll see it again
but I’ve never anything resembling this
she takes the 6 ball and puts it in one coat pocket
the 4 ball is flipped up in the air as the 9 ball is
hitting the ground and now it seems like everyone’s staring at her
cue ball in her left hand, the 8 ball in her right
the green felt glowing under hanging billiards lights
tinted with oranges and yellows and grime
She wound up just like it was the bottom of the 9th
like an old-timey pitcher with the long-winded wind-up
We all saw where she was aiming and where this was going
He started running toward the door
when she finally launched it
where his head had been only a second before
the mirror exploded and the shattered glass scattered quick
as his shadow was seen moving down the corridor
She grabbed the coat he left behind and walked outside
with a flick of a cigarette
Later that night as the owner cleaned up
and grumbled about the cost of pool ball replacements
there was something that caught my eye
a clear view to the sky, ripped through the ceiling
the size of a cue ball, when did she make that happen
what else does she make happen
I’ll take a manhattan
She paid less than a dollar to make things plain
that’s a pretty good deal in most centuries
Dead Armed Pitcher was Barely Alive
The path of a pitched baseball
can be curving or slurving
narrow or tall
cutting or knuckling as
the wind bends the arc’s fall
sliding or falling
like a sick stomach
having just reached the top
of a rollercoaster ride
that screams like a rocket
the bottom drops out of it
and comes to the most sudden stop
Instead of tossing the ball like any of that
I throw it right down the middle
as hard as I can
My ass is handed to me in front of a live audience
I grunt when I throw because they asked me to
because if I don’t they’ll ask why I didn’t
because they thought it would add a couple miles per hour
to my cartoonishly slow and extremely hittable deliveries
The other kid grunts back as he slaps a loud smack
The crowd roars because our team is away
and they are safe at home
We’re 13 years old, I suck
I got roughed up on the usual
but our team had no reliable bullpen
so they usually left me in to soak up the remaining innings
until the 10-run rule arrived, the rule of mercy
New Apartment
The silence of a new apartment
Waving to the one you left behind and closing the door
crying and knees and hands touching the floor
Do I want to be reminded
No, but I wouldn’t want to forget
Skip to my Lou
I watched a kid skipping rope
He skipped up and down the full length of this block’s sidewalk
without a single misstep, no miscues, no reservations
If anything he seemed to be craving a mistake
One to break the winning streak so he could move on to something else
Not at all like Mary Lou Retton, you remember
a nation holds its breath, it’s the 1984 Olympics
Her sprint to the vault pushes those watching to the edges of their seats
she launches, flips, soars, and of course sticks the landing
She demanded perfection of herself in a world of limits
Now it all comes down to what the judges should think
She walks past the NBC cameras and we see
the pressure of theater on the brink of the rink
no one blinks, I think, no one breathes
Then we saw the score and she heard it and said Yes!
and we all shouted the number together, Ten!
the announcer, the audience
everyone at home watching on our analog televisions
Moments like that certainly capture my attention.
One hundred percent of it, the career-defining performance
The tip of a spear dipping ever so slightly into transcendence
That’s the boy who skips, seemingly, without effort
in the moment, in this moment
at the top of his game, when life seems so easy
His kid sister walks behind him and watches and smiles
now she’s spinning and he’s romping down the block again
His streak is still going
He can’t retire while he’s still on top because
he hasn’t worked a job
I hope he doesn’t have to for as long as he can
I don’t want to be disenchanted, as I sometimes am
As we’re all bound to be, emptied into the sea
in the knowledge economy or whatever it is that we call this
every droplet of water makes its own slow way to the ocean
I try to push back against that kind of heavy drift
because I enjoy being enchanted
In fact, it means everything to me
When I feel magical I don’t know what I saw
I know what it felt like, I don’t know it all
I know every spell gets broken, I know where I don’t belong
I know most days aren’t like this
That’s why I hold onto this feeling so tightly for as long as I can
when I think about my voice and who is changing it
Afternoon Ritual
When the bus dropped me off, as a kid, I had a ritual
I would take off my bag and begin the great spin
Wielding my backpack like a Decathlete holds the hammer
Feeling the slack of the Jansport bag’s thin straps tightening
Seven full rotations and still gaining momentum
my legs starting to give out from under my center
My trapper keeper slamming up against polyester lining
The inevitability that things would go flying
as I’d send my book bag off on an afternoon journey
into the air as far as I could possibly throw it
often with a grand arc, as a performance
The bus pulled off with some kids laughing at me from the windows
but some of them were cheering, too.
then the school day was done, back when that home was still home
Dr. Howl
The moving men just finished
There are two of them, two guys, along with a truck
They’re dancing in the front cabin
and filling it up with vape smoke and laughing
hotboxing at 3pm, done with their shift
One of my neighbors is leaving
but I didn’t see who it was
There’s a beagle next door that I call Dr. Howl
The good doctor documents his agony
When his walker walks off to work
he yooowls to absurd length
caterwauls until no one can stand it
We all struggled with his loneliness
Those of us living within a 200-foot radius, that is
On some mornings it would go on for hours
He’d clock in early then go back to bed
only to wake up again around 9am
to resume his fits at even greater volume
I saw the Doctor Howl in his apartment’s side window once
We made eye contact while I locked my front door
I loved seeing him in his window frame, looking back at me
He single-handedly ruined my sleeping patterns
and I’d give him some more time, if I saw him, I’d give him a treat
Now the truck and the two guys are gone
There’s a large empty space where it was
I haven’t heard a howl all day
Come to think of it
I wonder where that sad boy is
I hope he’s calling out in a big open space
miles away from any other property
barking and huffing and squalling
the doctor settled in to his countryside practice
Nature Doc on a Loop
I want someone to grip my wrists
and look straight back at me
I want the clock to stop
so I can take a look and see
that maybe I’ve been wandering
for a while too long
like a loose broken turnstile
spinning cleanly, unbound
though not exactly uninhibited or free.
It’s not a tragedy
It can be another moment that wasn’t meant to be
the aftermath becomes the new normal
the temporary could be permanent
a workaround to adjust to the instability
to help cover up what is still wide open
Do you see why I need someone to grab hold of my wrists
Sometimes I need a moment
It seems like a lot of people want this movie to end
but I don’t
The point is moot
This theater plays films on a loop
The lead roles shift back and forth
and with time, we all learn each other’s lines
One of the characters is you
I don’t remember where our words came from
but as you say them
my lips might move too
knowing that it can and cannot be true
Missouri without a car is close to impossible
a child walking along a highway with a backpack
knows there is no point
kicks some dust off the shoulder
but still isn’t ready to be picked up
Everyone I know is overloaded
Their clients are falling from the windows
and squeezing back in through the front doors
Even their ledgers seem to be near their limits
I feel a kind of total emptiness
The grass grows back strong when
my weight is lifted off of it
Turns out the blades are indifferent
I’m one weird ass bird and you are the trees
Your roots are strong and I’m in the breeze
I can put my home in your branches
and hide in your leaves
I have no mouths to feed
the worms I catch are all for me
I’m on the tip of a feather
on which I sink
heavy, far and deep
the rush of living distilled into a moment of peace
under your familiar canopy
We can never be late here
Out of This Tape Hiss Comes Some Light
My wanderings have dropped me off here
old train running on a fresh sea
with fingertips all cut up and worn down from
constant use, my newer skin turns rough
I wanted someone to talk to but instead I had a beer or two
it’s only more water pushing against my barricades
We build ourselves back up and see each other off at the door
I wonder who is watching who
I wonder how long I can keep this up
I think about what it would be like to see you stop
I broke your locks but fixed your door sweep
Your car was fine but I brought it to the shop
I made your day easier and that was enough
Tough love, that’s kid stuff
I’ll clean the dirt off, don’t worry
Your hands are blistered
Mine are sweating, my glasses fogged up
But I can still drop them off at school
Two-step around the room
The drums and the singing
and I’m feeling warm again
I’m stretched out and dry
crushed in, drawn tight
skin so soft
my knuckles pop like firecrackers
my hands are stupid bricks
my WPM is 96
the words pile up and I keep writing
There’s a ship that sails back
I can still see it
I think about my sense of humanity
I think I saw my spirit dancing
with the one that brought me
the thought which took me out on the town and spun me sideways
our long naps in the evenings
unwarned
unearned
walking on air, enchanted
Loose Control
Sometimes I try to put myself in a state
call it Loose Control, for now
where expressive results are bent into javelined roads
temporary paths getting all covered up
and forgotten under relentless waves of new stuff
Imagine automatic writing but more visual
thin and slivering lines instead of language
the brush’s residuals replacing the text
When I Loosely Control my hand starts to move
on its own, independently
thickened water sloshingly flying
up and around the edges of a bucket
which is swirling in elliptical orbits
the inverse of my motions
the effects of my causes becoming
untethered from their origins
and yet I know that I am part of it all
It is from me and yet it doesn’t see me back
A forgotten mark gets scattered up
reforms as a ladder and tips
toward new directions
one of many landing strips
loud movement then stillness
a flood and then a covenant
I make my bed and I sleep on top of it
My heart beats are uninterrupted
They make me live so I listen
five liters of blood in a circuit
all sustained in pulsing rhythm
I barely understand but I still wake up