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Bits of straw,wood chips,decaying cardboard,plastic remnants. I’m not sureif it’s the squirrel that occasionally peersinto the sliding glass door. or the packrat I sawtrying to hideat the corner of the house. but someone appreciates me enough to leave giftsneatly arranged on my doorstep. © 2026 Bruno Talerico24/365.
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A friend asked mewhat my writing routine is,and I gave my pat answer:I don’t have one. ThenI couldn’t stop thinking about itand felt compelled to write downmy thoughts. I don’t sit at a deskwith a leather journaland fountain penor walk to a studioin the woods. But at least once a day,I am compelledto scribble on…
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America isn’t lacking urgency.It’s lacking digestion—the slow, disciplined workof converting outrage to action. In anatomy and physiology class,I learned that mass movementsare intense, sustained,wave-like contractionsof the large intestine’s smooth muscle. They rapidly propel accumulated fecesinto the rectum, signalingthe urge to defecate. So imagine the wheels turning in my mindwhen I saw this headline in The…
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Most often I write poetryon an iPad,or at the desktop. But sometimes, an idea pops up—and I have to record itbefore it’s gone. Then I grab whatever’s available: Sharpie on junk mail,a pencil stub on a sticky note,ballpoint on a dollar store notepad,crayon on scavenged cardboard,felt tip pen in the margins of old books. I…
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I begin each day at first lightreceptive and willing to fail—a wrong turn, a blank page. twilight breezes and birdsongoffer guidanceavailable only to the quiet witness. Authenticity is the webconnectingone thing to the next. I dowhat seems most importantin this moment, then,adapt. © 2026 Bruno Talerico20/365.Revision of an older poem inspired by William Stafford
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1. Human actions,especially collective human actions, always have consequences, expected and unexpected. 2. a. Is it possible to share a foxhole with a wolf and survive? b. What happened to the fox? 3. WTF? © 2026 Bruno Talerico19/365.
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I have not locked my doorssince I moved here eight years ago.I deadbolt the laundry room doorbecause it can blow openwith a strong gust of wind. I live on four acres in a semi-rural areaon the grassland of southern Arizona, surrounded by mountains, visited less by peoplethan by quail, javelina,and the local bobcat. A few…
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It’s time to cauterize the flag,prepare the fabric for new symbols. No more untrue blue.No more blood red.No more bleached white. It’s time for a flag of human colors.Pink, brown, yellow, tan—unbleached colors that don’t hide bruises. A flag of friendship.A flag of diversity. It’s time to redesign. No more straight lines.No more uniform stars.…
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Satire is contempt for truthlaundered into etiquette,for insulated conversations spokenas if consequencesare only hypothetical. We laugh at satirenot because we are entertainedbut because we recognize the truthwithin the joke. Satire enters the spacewhen polite languageand facts have failed.It is disdain for hypocrisy. Calling it comedymakes it easier to brush away,but ignorance is not a punch…
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Despite their poetic nature,poets are unpoetic beingsliving far from poetic lives,filled with dirty dishesand awkward conversations.They experience anxiety and insomnia,highs and lows of love, rage,wind that keeps them awake.Reaching their limit,they retreat and, like turtles,they pull into the quiet safetyof their inner landscape.To process.To analyze.To prioritize. To prune.Emerging with nothing morethan clipped lineson worn pages.Proof…
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Desert Dweller 