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and the sound of a drum. It’s March 1, 2026and somewhere in a desertan oil field away, we marchwith tiny dronesand lizards with legs that roll on steel wheels and trackslaid as they move.Rommel was a Fox.Bush was not a burning one.But this trumps them all—for now,until it doesn’t and we leavewith destruction behind.Say it…
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You believed in mepast my ability. I didn’t have it. I know that now. Once I begged for yes.You said yes.I rose. Once I begged for no.You said no.I stayed down. We made three.They carry us both. You were ground.I was light. This morning a dream:You at a door.I couldn’t speak.You couldn’t hear. Seven years.…
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ramblings in a day in the life…from journals (if you’re into that sorta thing) February 24–26 It’s Tuesday, or Taco Tuesday in Sierra Madre, but I’m fasting so that may not happen today. Lent is the season where Jesus went into the desert and fasted for forty days. No eating. Dang, that’s a while —…
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The Olympics finally gave curling some airtime this year — more than I ever remember seeing. Women’s, men’s, the whole slow-motion shuffle. First time you watch, if you’ve never seen it, your brain short-circuits: This is a sport? Olympic worthy? Really? You hear the terms — stones, brooms, sweeping — and it sounds like someone’s…
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Life—it’s me.Rent is due.Work is slow.I am sick. I wish there was a meterin the skycounting how hard I’ve tried.I’d look upand knowif I’m winningor losingjust like everyone else.But even thatI’d find a wayto mess up. The road is potholes now.Smooth partsonly make me scaredof what comes next.I drive slow.Listen for air.Wait for somethingto break.…
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***** a smear of days. a smear of light on the wall. the clock eats its own tail. got a number. a bad number. a cancer full of ghosts. google said: dead man. maybe. i thought: fine. i’ll just leak out quiet. didn’t tell nobody. told everybody. my boy’s voice on the phone. a crack…
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a letter to the dead… Hey Dad, it’s Monday again.I’m writing from where the cold snap brokeat 39 degrees, the mountains holding their breathlike a man waiting for test results.I wonder what sky you’re under now,if heaven is a temperature,a feeling of warmth after a long chill. Mom is okay. She still watches the news,gets…
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Saturday. Thirty degrees.The cold makes staying in beda theological act.Winter remembers itself here, briefly, in the mountainslike a ghost that forgotto leave completely. The heater hums a midnight hymn.I lower the dial to fifty,a small rebellion against the dark.Still, I waketo its murmur—faithful,fighting a chill I cannot name. They promise warmth next week.Santa Anas will…
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Good morning, Thursday. The week is nearly over. January is already in full swing—by next week, we’ll be halfway through the month. I went to the eye doctor yesterday. Doctor M has been my optometrist for over twelve years now. It’s a comfort, walking in and not having to introduce yourself all over again. She…
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A broken clock is correct twice a day. It strikes true.Its hands remain motionless.Gears, sprockets, jewels, springs—all frozen. You and me?Two pictures. The clock keeps timethe same way you and I do— twice a day,working,doing time.
“All colors made me happy even grey.” Nabokov, Pale Fire
A German carpenter by day working hard to follow a Jewish carpenter, exploring writing as a creative outlet. Passionate about learning through practice and observation.
BB Grey--musings 