MICHAEL SEYMOUR BLAKE

I write stuff sometimes. Here is some published work.

Michael Seymour Blake

Fiction:

Still No Snow / Heavy Feather Review 2018

Swift / Maudlin House 2018

Mr. Fixit / Carte Blanche 2017

Those Things You Do / Hobart 2017

We Sit There and Bleed / Maudlin House 2017

I'm Sorry, K? / Fluland 2017

Cat Mask / Corium 2016

Mediocre Company / Flapperhouse 2016

The Walkman / People Holding 2015

Nonfiction: 

You’ve Got This Whole Place to Yourself Tonight / The Trek 2018

I Wanna Dance With Somebody / Entropy 2016

High School Neurotic: An OCD List / Reality Beach 2016

No Way Does Anyone Live up Here / The Fanzine 2016

Dear Kernel People / Funhouse 2016

All the Death in the World Lives Inside You / Queen Mob's Tea House 2016

Poetry:

The Artist and the Tool Maker / Cosmonauts Avenue 2017

Parking Lot / Hypertext (print version only--actual poem below) 2016

Parking Lot

My father is 62 years old.
He works for the railroad.
Before that, he worked for the airlines.
Before that, he worked at a grocery store
lived in a truck outside the grocery store.
In debt, paying child support, no savings--
a proud loser.

One winter, my father won a few bucks
on a lotto ticket.
He decided to launder all his clothes.
The clothes were stacked in the back of his truck
only a handful were clean at any given time.
He gathered the garments in plastic bags to protect them
from the snow
and brought them to the laundromat.

Next morning he picked the clothes up.
He was broke again
but when he carried those clothes back to his truck
he couldn't help himself from whistling

let it snow
let it snow
let it snow.

He could still remember that wonderful weight of clean cotton
cradled in his arms like a newborn child
like a sack of cash
like warm, soft gold.

He placed the clothes in the back of the truck
stood in the snow, looking at everything he owned.

He worked a double-shift that day
feeling like a king.

At night
he walked
back to his truck
his bed
his parking lot home.
He opened
the trunk
to grab a pair of warm socks
but
the clothes spilled out into the brown slushy water
spilled over his beat-up boots
poured forth like an infection squeezed from the skin.

He snatched them up.
They were soaked through
covered in gravel and mud and snow.
He tried to fold them like they had been
to place them back neatly in the truck
but it was really coming down now
so he tossed them in a pile
and closed the trunk.

He stood there a while
looking at everything he owned.

Sometimes I feel that moment inside of me
and my veins run brown with dirty slush
my toes go numb
I taste exhaust in the back of my throat
and I know that man and
I will always be
in that parking lot
in that moment
together

let it snow
let it snow
let it snow.