what was that? is that all there is? who is this? this is it.

This poem spoke to me. This poem is speaking to me. This poem will speak to me again and again after that. If I ever wrote a poem, this is the kind of poem I would want to write. 

All due credit to Dobby Gibson. It’s not reprinted here without permission. It’s a photo of a red 53T big ring that just happened to land on page 46 of the April 20, 2026 issue of the New Yorker. 

Seven years on an island looks pretty good from where I'm sitting. Ask me about chainring bolt circle diameters, old locker combos and rubber duckies.

2 Comments

some NewYorkers fly through my hands into the free library. this one stuck with me. fiction, poetry X 2 and the cover too

At 19 I was belly upped in the Bâle of Hay Saloon, Virginia City Mt. one of the many local drunks was next to me presenting her thesis on my life with a Pomeranian named Elvis on lap. Buick was a malamute that a local independent, while high on coke, brought back from sturgis and then forgot about. As the woman lectured from the barstool Buick walked up behind, saw elvis’s ass hanging off the lap, then quickly snatched Elvis with his jaws abruptly ending the conversation with “oh my god! Buicks got Elvis!’ Elvis was ok but left the bar. Buick was seen eating a cat the next day.

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