Poems
“Heisenberg” appears in the premiere issue
of the new Albuquerque journal from Fusion,
Horizon Review. It is a prose poem.
Heisenberg
for Dan Haymond (1941–2013)
I don’t know if you ever went to the Filling Station, watched rising bubbles of beer through the glass sides of an old-fashioned gas pump each time another draft made its way through the nozzle; ate the bar food of fried mushrooms and zucchini strips called nuts’n’bolts or a hi-beam patty melt; or knew these glasses now filled with ice and Jack Daniels were stolen from there—though the enameled red letters and pumps have long since faded away, like the bar itself. But isn’t that the way of all things, the old replaced by the new, the slow fade into memory? Any chemistry teacher would agree that life is change.
We know you’d appreciate that we toast you with pilfered glasses by the light of the Virgen de Guadalupe votive that we always lit for our Sunday ritual, a candle that you picked up from HEB one night to mourn the bad-ass asesinos, two vengeance-bound hermanos of few words who prayed at an altar of such votives. La Virgen is buried in wax to her shoulders so that in the darkness her head glows as if she’s blessed with a real halo. Her prayer, inscribed on the back in Spanish and English, implores a confidence you always lived with—no patience for a Catholic faith or humility.
Without you, we now begin the final season of Walter White and his alter-ego Heisenberg, who have outlasted you with those television lives that go on forever. We hear a fly whacking the windowpane, listen for your asthmatic breathing, miss you at the commercial breaks, scraping a bowl of ice cream to get every last bit of chocolate syrup and whipped cream—voracious to the end. An unopened can of Reddi-wip lingers in our refrigerator, maybe for the very last episode—only seven more to find out if the characters’ fates will fulfill your predictions. In the meantime, we’ll watch Breaking Bad with glasses of Jack, this tacky candle, and your spirit. In the meantime, tread lightly, dear friend, tread lightly.
“Why Some American Adolescents Only Succeed
at Suicide” appears in MacQueen’s Quinterly 32,
June 2026. It is a haibun (prose & haiku). Image is
“Study in Gray,” one of my few acrylic paintings.
Why Some American Adolescents
Only Succeed at Suicide
Excitement abates when we discover Coach B is in charge of the PE curriculum. The first thing he bellows is to undress. “We’re going to jump right in—pun intended,” referring to the school’s new indoor pool. And by undress, he means every last stitch is to be placed in our lockers. We are ordered to line up by the pool, as if for a military inspection. Awkward and silent except for the Here of roll call, we avert our eyes from his glare that continually sizes us up.
fully exposed the intense sting of chlorine
We count out eight groups of six, only our hands to cover our privates. Coach B spurts out rules like buckshot. So much for jump right in. He enjoys making his grunts squirm. A sickly redhead who cannot swim dares to interrupt, asking what he’s supposed to do. Coach shouts, “Give me 25 pushups and stand at the baby end of the pool. Now, anyone else?”
between boys and men rip currents
The first four groups assemble at the deep end, and one by one jump in the pool and swim to the end where the redhead miserably stands. They return to the original formation as the second four groups have their turn at a half-lap. We spend more time standing than swimming, only now we’re wet and shivery. And so the cruelty continues.
Suddenly Coach B screams, “Stop!” He struts over to a heavy student and barks, “What’s this? Chubs with a chubby?” At which everyone looks at his penis, which is at least partially erect. Snickers and laughter until Coach gives us all the evil eye. The embarrassed student turns, runs to the locker room door, but it’s locked, and he realizes he’s trapped. He spends the rest of the period standing with the redhead, blubbering.
chain link rails a leap into the dark river below
