Recovery
Against the obscurity of daily acts --
events that go unrecorded
in the cortex (using the restroom,
washing the dishes), the mind
thrusts up epiphanies, a kiss, rain
on the roof, an unexpected smile,
as buffering islands, landscapes
protecting against forgetfulness.
Though half-drowned and trembling
like Kip in the oblivious sea
or as desolate as Crusoe
walking among wreckage of his fortune
memory returns us to these hospitable places
where we may be made whole again.
Transmissions
Driving a car dark as a closed shop,
I scan the late-night radio stations
broadcasting out of bypassed backwoods towns,
Denny, Marshall, Marty. One-note places
with quirky, opinionated DJs confiding
conspiracy narratives and doleful
country music confessions.
rasping with bourbon. Sending out
comfortable words from the hinterlands
for those done wrong or doing wrong.
I can’t see the whitewashed churches.
the motels abandoned by the Interstate
but their long-haul pick-up companionship
often kept me from drifting off,
I’ve passed out of their range.
I twist the dial and find only static.
Chris Bullard is a native of Jacksonville, FL. He was employed by the federal government as an Administrative Law Judge for seventeen years. His work has appeared in such publications as Rattle, Pleiades, Hole in the Head Review and Scientific American. One of his poems appeared in Keystone: Contemporary Poets on Pennsylvania in May of 2025. He has had twelve books of poetry published. Most recently, in 2025, Finishing Line Press published his chapbook, Lungs, He was nominated this year for the Pushcart Prize. He lives in Philadelphia, PA and is currently in hospice care for lung disease.
Against the obscurity of daily acts --
events that go unrecorded
in the cortex (using the restroom,
washing the dishes), the mind
thrusts up epiphanies, a kiss, rain
on the roof, an unexpected smile,
as buffering islands, landscapes
protecting against forgetfulness.
Though half-drowned and trembling
like Kip in the oblivious sea
or as desolate as Crusoe
walking among wreckage of his fortune
memory returns us to these hospitable places
where we may be made whole again.
Transmissions
Driving a car dark as a closed shop,
I scan the late-night radio stations
broadcasting out of bypassed backwoods towns,
Denny, Marshall, Marty. One-note places
with quirky, opinionated DJs confiding
conspiracy narratives and doleful
country music confessions.
rasping with bourbon. Sending out
comfortable words from the hinterlands
for those done wrong or doing wrong.
I can’t see the whitewashed churches.
the motels abandoned by the Interstate
but their long-haul pick-up companionship
often kept me from drifting off,
I’ve passed out of their range.
I twist the dial and find only static.
Chris Bullard is a native of Jacksonville, FL. He was employed by the federal government as an Administrative Law Judge for seventeen years. His work has appeared in such publications as Rattle, Pleiades, Hole in the Head Review and Scientific American. One of his poems appeared in Keystone: Contemporary Poets on Pennsylvania in May of 2025. He has had twelve books of poetry published. Most recently, in 2025, Finishing Line Press published his chapbook, Lungs, He was nominated this year for the Pushcart Prize. He lives in Philadelphia, PA and is currently in hospice care for lung disease.
