Sadness is a board with a pronged nail pointed out.
It’s there,
and it hurts to plant down on it.
But the board may also move,
and when it does,
we may aim the nail—
use it, say,
to mount the board itself on some wall.
Call it art.
Or treasure.
Treasure it.
And yet, within a wall’s wood
metals still may rust.
Hold while I fetch the hammer.
VIC FAXON
2026
Sadness is a board with a pronged nail pointed out.
It’s there,
and it hurts to plant down on it.
But the board may also move,
and when it does,
we may aim the nail—
use it, say,
to mount the board itself on some wall.
Call it art.
Or treasure.
Treasure it.
And yet, within a wall’s wood
metals still may rust.
Hold while I fetch the hammer.
VIC FAXON
2026
Four birds fly by,
bragging that they can.
I let them.
And I watch them go.
They see us brag all the time—
fluttering in our ways,
doing all sorts of stupid shit.
Here I sit writing about it like an idiot.
Vic Faxon
2026
Cheers all.
Some don’t shatter walls with their brilliance. Some don’t make us say, “Huh.”
Some can just be fun and funny, or silly and uplifting.
Does the tone make it any less poetic?
In poems you enjoy, what feelings or mood or tone are you drawn to the most?
Cheers. VF
Eeyore had it all figured out.
That guy...that vibe...that life. Damn that guy.
He had it all figured out.
Damn my own flared enthusiasm!
Damn my own raging diastolic!
Damn my own cursed pitiful breath!
Eeyore had it all figured out.
That guy—that wasn’t melancholy—that was pragmatic poise. Stoicism by choice. Gloom but a mood of the self-effaced. A pace to applaud; gait to emulate; an aura to purloin in habit, manner and voice.
Did Eeyore ever even talk? That’s my point!
Damn my own eager overflowed rejoice!
Damn my own yapping yawp in call!
Damn my own perforated safeguard!
Damn my own productive pulse!
Eeyore had it all figured out.
VIC FAXON
2026
Does anyone else ever feel like we’re battling in a fight against ourselves for doing what we want, that is, for being who we are—being ourselves?
Cheers. VF
And thus begins a tale to tell,
What hath occurred in a word absurd,
From slight behind a cupboard door,
Deep beyond the day in a cave,
Within a manse’s hall in Hell.
A gaggle of gowns, henceforth sent out,
Fluffing and pluming, with ne’er a shout,
No ne’er-do-wells, though comely and proud.
Feasting plum puddy, sippy tart ciders down,
Yet never the wiser, that they dined in Hell.
Twas without glares, that the hall stayeth fair,
In all their coifed, curled-back hairs,
They’d naught as yet met a dang’rous air.
Until—alas—a moment scared,
On which they came so rightly aware,
The crowd of dunces whom then came bare.
Coy mates there rowdy, raucous indeed,
Feigned, did they, as preachers do preach,
Brute huffy cares, as weak as the knees.
Enshrouded in haughty glaring unease,
Yet tender hands for still they dared reach,
All stricken by snipe grease, asmear on their cheeks.
At once—all cooed! a drum’s boom! it grew!
Grace aspiced, as did moods of the room,
Shrills went out, like a cock’s crow broke through!
Bawling grunt growls, “Oh heaven is here!”
“We’re sirs enbronzed!” that much made clear.
“But how?” “Tis true!” “Who them, or yous?”
“Thine heart, it moves!” “This ache—my proof!”
“Oh yes I say!” “Doth be not ‘fraid!”
“Steel sings this day!” “Thy ladies’ praise!”
“For love hath cometh—lest we be saved!”
As the madames returned to their puddings and cakes.
In 2024, my sister passed and I wrote this piece in her memory from my kitchen counter. No one’s ever seen it before. I share it to celebrate who she was.
In the light,
VF
Does this style appeal to anyone?
My brain just goes buzz and pieces come splat.
In the light. VF
What does the word then bring back in your mind?
What bit of nostalgia do you sometimes see when you close your eyes?
Cheers. VF
Does anyone read this and feel a familiar feeling of being in a dream? I wonder; regardless, I thank you for reading (if you have). I hoped to convey that anxiety that’s felt when we try to convince ourselves we’re just in a dream, in life.
Cheers.
VF
BLACK PLASTIC BICUSPID
My coffee mug has a small black removable piece covering the spout, it's removable. I've gone to dark—and I see it somehow become glued to my front right tooth, and I awoke with a removable black tooth that falls into a paper well, and with a missing coffee piece, I dreamed.
"Amazing entertainment," I say to a human ear on a hand. Two fingers slide open, mouthing words I interpret but don't understand. The arm's no ladder I'd be caught dead going down. A chest I see, without hair, and it's a shoulder blade full of old Canadian Dry twist tops that shine and make me thirsty. And suddenly, I taste caffeine.
Focus on the feeling. I focus on the feeling, and a tongue is wet and I see it run and it's a crozier.
I hear a hot hum...like sizzling stones on a sauna griddle. I wake up.
VIC FAXON
2026
Stress Rests in Guts
I haven’t had a normal bowel movement in months. See, it’s stress, stress is like a snaky worm that crawls up over the insides with its stub-legs piercing like pokes of a rake. Gets in ya, it does. And stress is one of those old cousins that you don’t see all the time or maybe ever when you’re young, but still in the background—over wherever they are—they grow up. They come bigger. They become what you always were too busy to see or understand or know about. Then one day they show up on your doorstep with a bunch of goddamn leather bags and burlap sacks stuffed with knotted nonsense primed to go on in after your insides. You hit an age: stress arrives. You deal with it for a while, a long while even; you get by. But lo and behold over in the corner that cagey ass cousin’s got itself in a mess of personal undoings at your expense. They remove every lightbulb, they replace pleasantries with short fuse, they dig up potholes to get ya with nearly every step you take. They stay. Even if you yell, “Go on—git!” it won’t matter none (I’ve tried). You ever host a party or go to a party and when you arrive all you want to do is tuck and run? Joke’s all on us. We can’t run. The cousin’s here to stay. All we are fit to do is keep an eye on them and do our best to keep the carpets clean. Truth is, won’t take long before they’re pissing every place.
VIC FAXON
2026
Edit: Pardon my fumblings, I’m still new to all this. The title has a typo and I can’t change it, but looking back, it makes me laugh even more. Yikes. Cheers. VF
