POEMOGRAPHY | 2025
Poems by R.M. Usatinsky
pōəˈmäɡrəfē, noun: form or process of writing and representing poetry
JULY
01JUL25 | CUTTING BACK
I’ve been thinking about cutting back;
wondering what would happen if I only
worked three days a week instead of four,
cutting back on my creative endeavors and
simply sitting back and seeing where life
takes me; work brings me an income, so
that’s a no-brainer, and while my creative
projects—for the most part—bring immense
satisfaction, I’m not quite sure I need them to
survive, not sure if the investment of time and
effort pays reasonable enough dividends; so
I wonder if the time I expend working on these
might be better spent enjoying the creative works
of others—authors, directors, musicians, etc.—and
while away my years as a spectator rather than trying
to fulfil so many unfilled dreams creating artistic work
02JUL25 | COOLING
There’s a moment
after the heat subsides
when cool air settles in
and replaces the oppressive
stifle of the muggy summer
sun; today’s cooling came
just after a brief thunderstorm
rolled overhead, leaving in its
wake the most pleasant steady
breeze that blew through the
house creating a wondrous calm
that left me standing in the open
balcony door with my eyes closed
tightly and my senses uplifted, then
breathing deeply in as if these were
the first breaths I had ever breathed
03JUL25 | PAIN
I’ve sat in the dentist’s chair many a time,
a lifetime of six-month checkups, cleanings,
extractions, orthodontia; but today’s visit
was the most painful I’d ever experienced;
apparently one of the few fillings I have fell
out and needed to be replaced, so I went to
the clinic prepared with earbuds to drown out
the sound of the drill (I never request any sort
of anesthesia) and cranked up a Journey playlist
and practiced some deep breathing exercises; but
neither the music nor the breathwork was enough
to dampen the pain—the drilling came thisclose
to the gum and the assistant was all but hellbent on
shoving my tongue down my throat (not to mention
the dentist stretching my mouth about six inches
away from my face); at least I have good teeth
04JUL25 | HIS NAME IS ED
I know him; I’ve seen him in a million
films and I’m nearly certain his name is
Ed; nearly certain because I have a hard
time remembering even the most familiar
things; I remember the lyrics to every 80s
song I’ve ever heard, though sometimes I’m
not sure who the artist is; I can remember
where every single student sat in Mrs. English’s
fourth grade class at Clinton school (Michael
Blacker, row six, seat six; Martha Waller, row
four, seat four…); so I’m sitting at home watching
a film and there’s Ed, playing the dying father of
Jason Sudeikis’ character, they’re driving to Kansas
so Ed can develop some old film at the last lab that
does it; and though I’m only twenty minutes in, it’s
hard to keep the tears in my eyes; got it…Ed Harris
05JUL25 | AN INTERESTING TURN OF EVENTS
I always tell myself I won’t go back,
that I’m content the way things are;
I suppose it’s a summer thing, time
when boredom and inquietude set in;
you see, loneliness is a double-edged
sword; it’s an interesting turn of events,
us finding each other under the waxing
gibbous moon, the one hiding so plainly
inside thin, low-hanging clouds that appear
to the south floating over Rotterdam; but
what’s more interesting than the moon is the
series of the week’s events, watching films
where one woman confesses that her husband
is the most interesting person she’s ever known;
another where an interracial couple blur the lines
between love and social norms; I am so ready for this
06JUL25 | WHAT IF
What if it was all in my head
the doom and gloom and dread;
what if it was the shadows in my room
monsters in the closet and under the bed;
what if I had loved you the way one should
would it have made a difference or done any good;
what if I’d been born in the autumn instead of the spring
could the season I was born in really have changed anything;
what if things were different, what if they could change
what if we could fix what’s broken, adapt and rearrange;
what if I could undo all the things I’d done and said
what if you had been a friend and not an enemy instead;
what if today was my last day on earth
what if one’s death is really one’s birth;
and what if I disappeared right into thin air
not sure that anyone but you would even care
07JUL25 | THE BEGINNING OF THE END
I can feel the decay setting in;
the beginning of the end, the
ever so slight clues the body
leaves in the most inconvenient
ways, just enough to sound the
alarms but seemingly never quite
loud enough to stir me from sleep;
there is no pain, only discomfort;
but there is fear, fear and the ever
present unease that it may end at
any moment, that what I’ve known
will become unknown and that all
I have become will be reduced to
nothing in the matter of a single
fleeting instant; and then it will
be me, alone, trapped, departed
08JUL25 | THE LAST OUNCE OF DIGNITY
You’ve taken everything else
but I refuse to cede the last
ounce of dignity; you’ve taken
my home, the one I found, the
one I convinced you would be
the ideal place to raise our family;
then the deceit and betrayal, the
meticulously devised plan to take
everything from me, systematically,
little by little, one piece at a time;
then the alienation, then refusing to
intervene when you knew you could
easily remedy the situation; and day
after day you continue beating me
down, belittling and rebuking, making
me feel small, insignificant and unwanted
09JUL25 | ALL THESE POEMS
All these poems,
and for what? I
write them only
to say I did, like
the stamp in my
passport declares
I have been there;
all these poems,
wasting space in
the void of time;
read by no one,
only serving to
deaden the pain,
like anesthesia for
a dying soul whose
only purpose is to die
10JUL25 | FLAT-BOTTOMED BOAT
I’m finally going to finish what I
started years ago, going through
the remaining twenty or so plastic
storage boxes I’ve hauled from
Chicago to Valencia to Liverpool
and to Holland; they contain the
remnants of my past—birthday and
bar mitzvah cards, photos, keepsakes,
clippings, school syllabi and memories
from a life long lived; I started clearing
them out during the pandemic but never
got back downstairs to our muggy, dusty
basement to finish the job; I’m hoping
that clearing it all away will help get
rid of the emotional cobwebs that have
been weighing heavy on me for years
11JUL25 | FLAT PAPER STRAW
You sucked it all out of me
like a flat paper straw, there’s
no way for anything to pass
through; you’ve sucked out
the life, the love, the will to
live and every ounce of desire
I had to fight for what I once
believed in; and what happens
to the flat paper straw? maybe
some futile effort to bring it
back to life, but those efforts
are always made in vain and
it’s always best to simply the
discard the thing that no longer
serves its purpose and lift off
the cup’s plastic top and drink
12JUL25 | IN REPLACEMENT
I’ve never deleted or replaced a poem
in this space as it’s never occurred to me
to do so until now; what had originally
occupied this realm has been discarded,
vanished into thin air with the click of
the mouse never to be seen again; but
maybe I’ll keep the original as a subtle
reminder of what happens when allowing
one’s self to stray from the straight and
narrow, veer off the path of enlightenment
and be whisked away in the moment of a
moment; so, unapologetically I replace a
few lines, some thoughts that, after giving
them some more thought, concluded they
would be better left unwritten, remaining,
as they will, in the void of my restless mind
13JUL25 | HAARLEM
I won’t be going to Haarlem today,
something about the best laid plans;
I should have known better than to
put my trust in strangers especially
as strangers are never as kind as I
expect them to be (or expect they
should be); instead I will stay home
and indulge in the familiar, the usual
Sunday breakfast of fried eggs, hash
brown potatoes, baked beans, tea and
toast; then I’ll surely lounge around,
watch a film or two, have a nap (or
two), eat lunch and dinner and settle
into the Cubs going for the series win
at Yankee Stadium; I won’t miss having
not gone to Haarlem, or you and your mess
14JUL25 | A HEIGHTENED SENSE OF AWARENESS
You have this heightened sense of awareness
that seems to be able to read my moods, know
my every thought and emotion like when I’m
crying while watching a film, which you do
so often without even seeing the tears falling
from my eyes; you’re always tuned into my
feelings, knowing when they’re up or down;
but what seems to elude this sixth sense of
yours is how you break my heart, and do it
silently, without as much as saying a single
word or glancing my way; and you won’t let
me hug you and you don’t confide in me; you
don’t share your feelings or ask about mine;
and I feel you slipping away, just like your
brother and sisters did, leaving me alone with
my head barely above the surface as I drown
15JUL25 | TWENTY-SIX CANDLES
Twenty-six candles on your birthday
cake today but I won’t be sending a
card or calling or thinking too much
about you; twenty-six years, but the
best ones are behind us; it seems I was
only meant to be a part of your life for
a short time; but those times were good,
well maybe not good but plentiful; I did
fulfill my fatherly duties as good as any
man, better perhaps, and no one can ever
take that away from me, not even you;
twenty-six candles on your birthday cake,
I hope you blow them out with fervor and
remember me in some small way; the love
I gave you and the small things that will
forever be a part of you and your existence
16JUL25 | QUIET SUFFERING
I often sit at the foot of my bed
gazing out into the courtyard;
sometimes I stand out on the
balcony or perched in the window
looking out over the canal trying
to make out if what I see floating
in the murky water is a plastic bag
or a patch of leaves; but it’s more
than just my eyesight that’s failing,
it seems like my whole damn body
is in a spiraling decline; there isn’t
any pain, just discomfort here and
there, the quiet suffering is mostly
in my head but that doesn’t mean it
isn’t real; I’m not ready for what’s
to come, but I guess no one ever is