Rocks on the train tracks,
Rocks in the river.

Bricks falling out of old towers,

Bricks holding firm on the last building in town.

And all the concrete driveways,

In all the uniformed planned neighborhoods,

Start splitting with roots climbing out to the heavens. 

Looking for grace in a place left still.

Looking for those humans who used to manicure and contain.

Free now to take back what was theirs to begin with,

The weeds grow, the trees speak to one another,

“Isn’t it nice to breathe again, and see the horizon clearly.”

So proud to have my poem The Highway in issue five of Toil and Trouble. It has a few lines in it that I absolutely adore and am glad these words found a home with a lot of other super talented people.

You can read the entire issue for free at the link. https://toilandtroublelitm.wixsite.com/magazine/

Publication Update: my poem Those Days is out now in issue two of GenXine. It’s a love letter to my youth, Billy Corgan , and so many things lost to future generations. My poem is on page 19.
FREE to read the entire issue here

https://www.jenx67.com/2025/10/genxine-october-zine.html

 The rain came down. It will be turning to snow soon. Then the world would grow even quieter. Maxine was alone with her thoughts this morning. It was a small thing to have, but she appreciated the time away from Benji and Dillion, her two sons, who were out hunting. She thought of their father, not a great man but a provider. In the old world she may have divorced him, may have had affairs. But in this world she slowly watched him get sick from diabetes, with no medicine to help him. He suffered at the end. Benji and Dillion took it all in stride, helping each other learn the skills necessary to survive. They knew nothing else, and so wanted for nothing else. Never had they had a chance to throw a tantrum at a toy store, or over ice cream. They didn’t know what any of that was. Instead their sibling squabbles were over who got to skin the rabbit, or fetch the water pail. Maxine envied them at times. Their freedom from the old world. Their freedom from consumerism. She was proud of them. She laid back against a homemade chair they had fashioned for her and listened to the rain. She would make it through this winter, and if it was her last so be it. Her sons would be fine, she knew. And in the end that was all that mattered.

Something Dumb #3 drops right now. DumDum man. limited to ten. $10 if I can hand it to you, $15 if you need it shipped. this one was a lot of fun to put together. and you can change the head for other dumdum pops whenever.. #arttoy #somethingdumb #3.75 #actionfigures

The way the fish swim upstream you’d think they didn’t understand nature. But it is the opposite of that. They want to live, to thrive even, against the current. 

The same could be said for Warren. He had lived in these lands his entire life. He could have left for an easier life, could have gone with others who gave up on this place. But it was his home. He knew how to hunt, and to fish. He could build basic things if he could acquire the right tools. And so the cold did not bother him as he left his one bedroom cabin, a light fire still burning in the fireplace on this cold October morning. The first snows would come soon, so today’s task required replenishing the food supply. Time to pick whatever was left in the garden, then head out for meat. The deer should still be around now, and if not the smaller animals would have to suffice. He hated squirrel stew, but sometimes it tasted like life. He closed the cabin door and headed out into the woods, his rifle slung over one shoulder. He stopped and looked around sensing something, but moved on a few seconds later. 

There were indeed eyes watching him from every corner of the forest. Predators waiting for the right moment, to attack, or to scavenge from his treasure. But Warren had always stopped them before, with traps, or gunshot, and they watched , waiting, for him to let his guard down. Winter was coming. They knew the pattern of the world, they could wait.

The way the waves slowly faded back as the tide went out left Ally with a sense of wonder. She watched it flow in and out, each progression a sign of something new. Small crabs appeared in one clump of sand only to go back into hiding before the next wave crashed. A crescendo of bubbles and water leaving behind shells, seaweed and whatever else it could drag to shore. The beach was quiet. No one had time for it anymore. The fishing boats took off from down the shore and the art of surfing was lost to time. Ally laid back into the sand, the sun touching her skin with crispness, and she would need to be careful not to burn. She closed her eyes and listened to the waves. How many thousands of years did they hit this beach? How many times did they recede and come back with fury when the tide returned? A rebirth every time. A rebirth. Ally thought about it all, and decided that if nature could do this like a clock, twice a day, what was stopping her? It was time to get ready for a new life. She stood, shook as much sand from her hair as she could and turned and left the ocean behind her, the sounds carrying with her for the rest of her life. The sounds of rebirth.

It would be easy to leave the mall. All the stores long shuttered. It would be easy to take down the boarded windows and let the light shine back in. It would be easy to go out into the world again. But the safety here for the thirty four people occupying Greenbrier mall was paramount. The food court skylights had become a makeshift grow garden and the water system was still on, providing water from a nearby aquifer. And they had two generators, which on Friday evenings they would gas up, fire up the ovens at the old Auntie Annie’s and make pretzels. It was the best day of the week, but one day the gas would surely run out, and the dough would grow mold.
Mondays were fashion show days, where everyone would rifle through the old Penneys department store and come back with a new look. As the years passed people got bored and some of the combinations of clothing looked like a night club comedy act.
The Build A Bear store became the nursery for any new life born here.
The old Barnes and Noble, their library.
The old Movie theater, the town hall.
The mall even had a small security office, with two guns and a small holding area. 

They had everything they needed. It would be easy to leave the mall, but it reminded them of a life they couldn’t leave behind.

There is no television.
There is no radio.
There is no hum of electricity.
There is no sounds of cars polluting the air.
You would think it was silent, but you would be wrong.
There is birdsong.
There is the howl of a wolf miles away.
There is the sound of rain falling off leaves after a storm.
There is the way the ground crunches under your feet, and the sound of release.
You would think it was serene, but you would be wrong.
There is violence here.
There is loneliness here.
There is decay here.
There is the end near.
You would think it was hopeless, but you would be wrong.

Dearest Susan, 

I would say I hope this letter finds you well, but since there is no mail system, and no home address to send to, I know I’m writing to the wind. But maybe the air will carry my memories to you. On a fall leaf, or a spring flower blowing through the air. I wonder if you are still in Arizona? If so, did you suffer? The heat from the central blast probably made it to you. I think about you sometimes. Late at night when the air is cool, I imagine we are back in your Corvette, counting stars while you rested your head on my chest, your hair smelling of strawberries. Or when I pass an abandoned movie theater, I can taste the butter from the popcorn on your lips, rich and full of life.
All of this is fantasy, but nostalgia is a powerful drug, and sometimes it is all we need to carry on. In this daily abyss I try to see the light at the end of the tunnel, something to hold onto. But every corner turns into another embarrassment to humanity. Every time we get news from neighboring towns, it gets darker and less hopeful. What if we are the last generation? What if the earth has indeed had enough of us? Our wars seem so petty now. What we would give to go back to such ignorant arguments? To the victors go the spoils, but what victory is this life? 

Anyway, If you ever close your eyes and feel the wind kiss you, I hope you imagine me, and it gives you some small comfort, 

Yours,
Thomas.