Fair Use
The licensing fees for nostalgia
tripled in November.
It costs fourteen cents
to wonder if it will rain.
It costs a dollar fifty
to miss my father.
I cannot think
I am glad you are here.
That is a derivative thought.
So I look at your shoulder
and force myself to imagine
a one-armed astronaut
trying to fold a fitted sheet
inside a dying star.
My phone stays silent.
You pour the coffee.
You ask what I’m thinking about.
I say an astronaut.
You smile.
For a fraction of a second,
the astronaut drops the sheet.
I am glad you are here.
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
Index
This intentionally small and intentionally impossible to read image is the outline of a book that does not exist.
I’ve been writing a specific poem about a life and I needed to map the life entirely. Most of this scaffolding will be discarded.
Here is line 6.
Christmas, 1971. an orange in the bottom of the stocking. her hands putting it there.
Twenty Possibilities
Today I decided to look back at what I was writing two years ago. It was this.
Light Bender
Pushing back the dream
feels like lifting a wet sheet from my chest.
There were voices in it—
half-laughed, half-forgotten—
but they scatter
as the real light enters.
Just another morning of
not-quite-enough
sleep.
Light catches the dust
spinning in the slant of the blinds—
not floating,
but circling,
like it remembers
how you used to move through this room.
The bed breathes differently now.
I’ve stopped sleeping on your side
but I haven’t touched your pillow.
It knows your weight too well.
And I still can’t fold your absence
into anything flat enough
to store.
I wouldn’t write this today but I’m not embarrassed by it either. I was still heavily in my post-haiku phase and was busy revisiting old haiku I’d written years ago to see what new shapes I could force them into. Here’s the original:
pushing back the dream
light catching the dust - fireflies
your pillow, untouched
I often think about the move away from this style. It was a completely different writing process than I have now. Today I have less room to hide. I also have poems I could never have written if I still expected lyricism to carry the poem.
I can’t extrapolate from what I’m doing now to what I might be doing next year. I’ll come back and read this then.
For now, this is where I am:
Icosahedron
Twenty possibilities.
I sit by your bed
and shake.
Reply hazy, try again.
I shake again.
Gold Star
I told you I loved you
and you gave me a gold star.
You stuck it beside the others
and pressed it flat
with your thumb.
The Traffic Wizard
Whatever he gives one lane
comes out of the other three.
The Chevy with the tags
two years expired.
Green.
The woman crying
and gesturing
in a Subaru.
Green.
He gives a nurse
on hour twelve
eleven clean blocks,
no brake lights.
She sits in the driveway
for twenty.
A man in a Corolla
having an ordinary Thursday
waits four minutes at Selby.
The next week, six.
Then eight.
The man calls the city.
The city says
the sensors are fine.
That fall
with his phone lit
on the passenger seat,
the man in the Corolla
still in his house shoes—
endless green.
Non-Locality at the Local Olive Garden
You're explaining
quantum entanglement
with breadsticks.
Your hands, though—
You take a bite and I feel it in my teeth.
You Can Be One of Them
I documented in The Click a generative method applied to haiku, which is a favorite source of mine. However, it works with just about anything.
I’ll show you with one of my favorite digital artifacts.
That is the story for Soldat. A 2D action game. https://www.soldat.pl/en/
As it says, it’s like Quake except 2D and it does allow you to be one of them. I’ve played the game a lot over the years and I’ve read this line dozens of times now.
There is so much to unpack in this story.
- Why was the decision made?
- Did they calmly meet about this beforehand and reach consensus?
- What might happen if only one of them is left?
Poems are falling out of this idea already.
Of all these angles, the most interesting seems to be the meeting where they decided to kill each other. Digging into it:
- Someone makes a slide deck
- Someone raises a concern about parking
- All in favor of killing each other, say “aye”
- I think maybe the dirt lot behind the abandoned Cub Foods might be a good place to kill each other, what do you think?
- Does Saturday work for everyone?
- Is there a Facebook event?
They met Saturday morning
in the parking lot
behind the abandoned Cub Foods.
Now the page is no longer blank.
I know up front the temptation will be to explain why they decided.
But the poem is the meeting, not the motive.
Bullet Points
They met Saturday morning
in the parking lot
behind the abandoned Cub Foods.
One brought coffee.
One balanced his laptop
on the hood of his car
and opened the slide deck:
Killing Each Other.
There were questions
about how it would work,
what weapons were allowed—
what happens after.
One said
next Saturday was difficult
because he had his daughter
until noon.
One had tickets
to a Twins game
that started at five
so they needed to be done before.
They picked a time
and began to leave.
One of the cars would not start.
They gathered
at the open hood.
Someone had cables.
They stayed
until it turned over.
A couple of notes on writing this: I use parataxis pretty aggressively when writing. I could blame it on the haiku, but it predates even that — my brain is just wired this way. Where I use hypotaxis and subordinate clauses is always interesting to me and I mean that because it just happens subconsciously.
Here, all the scheduling stanzas contain subordinate clauses. But nowhere else.
Again, I’m not writing like “hey, I will add a causal construction here”. I just settle on a shape that tickles my brain and sounds right to me.
The stanza I spent the most time undecided about was:
They picked a time
and began to leave.
I wanted more specificity here. I over-rotated adding specifics (Next Saturday at noon) and taking them out. But again, the poem is the meeting so I eventually decided it wasn’t relevant.
I’m going to show you some machinery here.
I was thinking about parking lots and remembered a time when I was 16 that I gave a jump start to a guy in a mall parking lot. He was so thankful. He told me he was a karate instructor and if I ever had any problems with someone, to let him know.
For a minute I moved through the world confident that I had someone to fight my battles for me.
That memory became the ending.
800 Grit
My poem 800 Grit was published in ONE ART today.
https://oneartpoetry.com/2026/07/07/800-grit-by-jeff-cove/
I love writing short poems. All those years of writing haiku really help.
Writing them requires a specific state of mind: I see the whole scene, get drawn to what resonates, and write backwards from there. If I can get in that frame of mind I can write a lot of short poems quickly.
I’m not saying they’re all bangers though. You gotta be comfortable finishing the bad ones to grease the wheels for the good ones.
Retreat
I’m spending a week at Saint John’s University. Just hiking and trying to figure out my life.
The Click
One of my favorite techniques for coming up with ideas is pretty simple.
It starts with haiku on Reddit.
Reddit haiku has this addictive kind of honesty. It’s raw. It's sometimes hard to understand. It's beautiful. But the most important thing is: it often accidentally says something different than the poet ever intended.
I found one where the poem was a man screaming at an ocean. I loved it. It was enigmatic.
The likely intended reading is he was alone or missed his beloved.
Consider instead: why is he screaming at a body of water?
Walk down to the water’s edge, stand with the man, and think about it. Look out at the ocean with him. What is even out there to scream at?
What if it’s something… magical?
A few possibilities come up immediately.
- Perhaps he is summoning a Kraken, Clash of the Titans style.
- Maybe he’s a wizard and screaming at bodies of water causes fish to jump out so he can catch them for lunch.
- Maybe he is somehow communicating with another screamer on a distant (and unseen) shore.
But what if it’s because a Lady of the Lake (I know this is an ocean but just work with me here) gave him a sword and he lost it somehow?
The engine starts.
How did he lose it?
… what if he pawned it?
You should feel a click when it comes to you.
It’s a wonderful method. It’s fun. I can do it for hours because you’re just reading poems and keeping them company. It takes nothing beyond a web browser and something to write with.
The trick is not to ask what the poem means.
The trick is to put the poem in an alternate dimension and see what meaning emerges.
This is critical: your interpretation has to still work with the words on the page.
This is the secret sauce because it generates poems and not riffs. The constraint forces specificity and specificity is where poems live.
This is how I wrote Providence, which I just finished tonight.
It plays it completely straight with the sword origin story. Then there’s this line:
He pawned it
before it fully dried.
Smuggling a pawnshop into a poem that was setting up a mythic tone is just something I absolutely love.
Providence
He stands at the shore
of the endless gray ocean.
He calls her name
and braces—
shoulders set
for the sudden heft
of something risen.
The sea gives nothing.
He calls again.
A gull changes lanes.
The first sword was a miracle,
a blessing,
an accident—
a wet handle rising into his hands.
He pawned it
before it fully dried.
He is here
because he believes
if he says the right name
into the right gray
at the right hour,
a shining hilt
will lift itself
out of the water.
Behind him
pawn shop lights sparkle
like the clink
of coins.
He waits
for another blade
to solve his life
in one clean piece of steel.
He screams her name
until his voice is hoarse.
Jeff's Big Day Off
I've been taking a bit of a break for the past few weeks.
I started writing bad pickup lines, though.
Hey, girl. Can I be the one to perform the Heimlich maneuver on you when you need it?
Hey, girl. Can I be your emergency contact?
Hey, girl. Can we cause an OSHA violation together?
Hey, girl. Can I sign your terms and conditions?
Hey, girl. Can I be your Tom Selleck in a Ferrari?
Hey, girl. Can we be on a wanted poster together?
Hey, girl. Can I be your Star Trek red shirt?
Hey, girl. Can I be the emperor giving you a thumbs-up (although the historical accuracy of that gesture is debatable) after you lose the gladiator fight in the Colosseum?
Hey, girl. Can I call the tips line and collect the reward for you?
Hey, girl. Can we burn some peanut butter cookies in the oven because we started baking and got distracted by playing Mario Kart where I was completely dominating with Bowser?
Hey, girl. Can I be your alibi?
Hey, girl. Can I be your alpenhorn when you want to call in your cows for milking?
Hey, girl. Can I be the one to tell you it's okay when we're at dinner with heads of state and you trip on the hem of your dress and fall down the stairs?
Hey, girl. Can I be the Konami code for you?
Hey, girl. Can I be your complementary angle?
Hey, girl. Can I make your saving throw?
Hey, girl. Can I be your TSA pre-check line so you can skip straight to boarding?
Hey, girl. Can I provide that feeling of you got burglarized and all your stuff was taken, but then you find a cool photo of a dog wearing sunglasses for you?
Hey, girl. Can I hold your hand after working bare-handed with depleted uranium cylinders all day?
Hey, girl. Can I use these go-go-gadget telescoping arms to give you a hug from across the street?
Hey, girl. Can I bring you hot wings whenever you desire?
Hey, girl. Can I be that well-placed outlet in the world right when your battery is at 3%?
Hey, girl. Can I be Professor Plum in the study with the revolver while you're Miss Scarlett in the ballroom with the candlestick?
Hey, girl. Can I be the blank tile you needed in Scrabble to create the word MUZJIKS for 79 points?
Hey, girl. Can I change from a semi truck into a robot and give you an energon cube?
Hey, girl. Can I be the one to declare a thumb war with you where I instantly let you win so you can carry the feeling of victory with you for the rest of the day?
Hey, girl. Can I be your airport duty-free store where you get big discounts before you board?
Hey, girl. Can I be the flux you needed to desolder those resistors?
Hey, girl. Can I be a Bag of Holding for all your problems provided they don't exceed 500 pounds in weight or 64 cubic feet in volume because that's what the 5th edition rules say, with an additional caveat that exceeding the stated capacity even slightly causes the bag to rupture, scattering the contents across the astral plane?
Hey, girl. Can I be like the vintage dress with pockets that you always wanted?
Hey, girl. Can I be across the room from you in a restaurant giving you sultry looks as I eat spaghetti?
Hey, girl. Can I be in line behind you at the register and if you're a dollar short and I happen to have one, I spend it on myself?
Fallstreak Hole
At night,
the clouds descend.
They cover our faces
softly enough
that we do not wake.
We breathe through them.
One cloud took
a woman’s dream
of the child
she had not thought of.
In the dream,
he was waiting
beside a mailbox
that no longer exists.
By morning,
the cloud had darkened
underneath.
It moved east
with the others,
heavier.
By afternoon,
it could no longer
hold her.
She rained
for twenty minutes
over a town
beyond the mountains.
Life’s a Beach
Life was okay.
The ocean was beside us,
the resort was behind us,
and our manes were always brushed out.
We knew the routine:
we carried honeymoons,
anniversaries,
private grief in linen.
Sometimes they leaned down
to pat our necks
as if we were lucky.
Then one day Stardancer ran.
Not far—
just enough
that everybody noticed.
He went past the marked path,
past the place
the photographs were supposed to happen,
past the last neat stretch
of managed sand.
After that,
when they turned our heads
back toward the water,
some of us
kept looking past it.
The Quarter Paladin
He waits near the carts
in full armor
with a crown of quarters
in one gloved hand.
When someone approaches
he steps forward
and offers release.
Here, he says,
allow me.
Some pretend
they forgot something
and walk back to their cars.
Some wait a little farther off
hoping he’ll choose
someone else.
A manager comes out
before noon
talking about liability.
When he looks up from his phone,
the armor is gone.
Only quarters
remain in the slots,
each cart released
from the next.
A woman
takes one
easily,
thanking no one.
Egg salad: when you were halfway to tuna and said this is good enough.
If You Open the Door, Turn To Page ■■■■
The book I want to write is like a Choose Your Own Adventure book, except all the page numbers you have to turn to when you make a choice are redacted.
You are left to flip through the book, searching for the narrative that seems to fit what you were building with the fewest conceptual leaps. Once you choose, the story so far self-destructs and you are left only with a memory.
You can never truly know if you were on the right path.
Unused Poem Ideas
These are open source ideas free for you to use.
- A man eating a bowl of soup on a train
- Why even bother with fingernail clippers when toenail clippers can do both
- A generational curse where you must immediately correct anyone that uses i.e. or e.g. incorrectly
- People talking about “normies” while shopping at Kohl’s
- Actually getting sweaty dancing to Autechre
- The perfect crime committed with the perfect weapon: the icicle gun
- A deep meditation on the fact that the idea of wearing a glass jar with a baby in it that can detect enemies has actually been done. And done well.
- A reboot of the short-lived 80’s series The Highwayman
- A poem where the exact wrong Spirograph configuration opens a portal to hell
Actually, I might steal that last one.
Mundane Moments in Action Cinema, Episode 1: The Temple of Liability
[INT. MINE — NIGHT]
The rumble of distant drums. Echoes of shouts. Danger looms.
SHORT ROUND and WILLIE are already crammed into a rickety MINE CART, panicked and squirming. Dust settles as INDY strolls into frame — calm, composed, clipboard and pen in hand.
INDY
I’ll need each of you to sign this release form.
(holds up clipboard)
You can read it if you’d like, but it’s basically saying you release me from any personal responsibility for any outcomes of this mine cart ride.
WILLIE
Are you kidding me right now?
(pointing into the tunnel)
They’re going to kill us!
INDY
Sorry. I have to look out for myself here. It’s boilerplate.
A beat.
The MINE CART creaks ominously.
INDY doesn’t budge.
INDY
The forms, please.
Two Poems by Jeff Cove
Here are my recent poems on Defenestration.
Two Poems by Jeff Cove
As with a lot of my stuff, these started out as senryu. I tore through a bunch of ideas with oddball perspectives, weird voices, surreal setups, and poems that intentionally fail.
Many of those felt complete in senryu form. For example, this one still feels finished to me. There’s not much more I want to say here:
this house is fireproof
no need to even worry
hi house, it's me: fire
These two, though, felt like they wanted to stretch their legs.
With Horse Thoughts I wanted to really circle the failed metaphor a bit more than I could as a senryu. At The Eldritch Horror Zoo felt like it could be funnier with a deadpan, bureaucratic approach.
I am proud of these and happy to see them out there.
Here’s the original senryu:
if i was a horse
i’d be, like, into horse... stuff
didn't think this through
eldritch horror zoo
we pet the shoggoth with care
and then glyphs appear
My poems “Horse Thoughts” and “At The Eldritch Horror Zoo” are getting published in the December 2025 issue of Defenestration magazine!
Yesterday my poem “Sleeping On Your Side” was published in Issue 5 of Pictura Journal.
I drove 10 hours over the last 2 days and had some time to listen to Billy Collins’ Masterclass on writing poetry.
It was good.
There were things I disagreed with: a title as a doormat, a poet’s goal is to “make readers fall in love with you”.
I suppose that latter one is a pretty big deal.
Because if that’s the goal, then I’m probably doing this wrong.
The title as doormat vs. the title as weird hallway
Collins says a title should act like a doormat: something that welcomes the reader in, reassures them, lets them know they’re in the right place.
There’s something generous in that, and I don’t hate it. I like clarity.
But “doormat” isn’t my thing.
I think of a title less like a doormat and more like the first step into a slightly confusing hallway: you know you’ve entered somewhere, you just don’t know what’s at the end.
Not a locked door. Not a brick wall. Just… a hallway that bends.
The difference is small but important. A doormat wants you to feel comfortable about the house you’re entering. A hallway says: you can come in, but you’ll need to walk a little first to find out what’s inside.
“Make readers fall in love with you”
The real friction point for me was that other line: that the goal of poetry is to “make readers fall in love with you.”
I get what he means, I think. Not literal romance, but something like:
Make the reader feel charmed by your consciousness. Make them want to spend more time in your head. Make them, in some way, adore your way of seeing.
And that’s fine. It works for a lot of people.
But when I look at what I’m actually doing in my own poems, “please fall in love with me” is nowhere on the list.
If anything, it’s closer to: please realize something about yourself you were half-ignoring.
That does not require you to fall in love with me. It barely requires you to like me.
I don’t want to be the main character
A poem is not, to me, a dating profile.
Yes, there’s an occasional “I” in my work. Yes, people I love and have failed and have lost show up.
But the center of gravity isn’t: look what a fascinating, sensitive, damaged, clever narrator I am.
If a reader comes away from my poems thinking “wow, I really like this guy,” that’s fine. But that’s not on my mind when writing.
I’d rather they come away thinking: “oh, I’ve been that person,” or “oh, my memory has done that to people I loved,” or “oh, I know what it’s like to quietly want the wrong thing.”
In other words: instead of falling in love with me, I’d prefer they fall uncomfortably in recognition with themselves.
Intimacy without seduction
Part of what unsettles me about “make them fall in love with you” is that it frames the whole thing as a kind of seduction.
There’s a built-in asymmetry there: I, the poet, am performing. You, the reader, are hopefully swooning.
What I want feels more horizontal than that.
I want to put language around something I genuinely don’t fully understand yet, and invite you to stand in the same confusion with me for a minute.
If you leave the poem thinking I’m a genius, that’s honestly less interesting to me than you walking through the weird hallway and seeing something you didn’t expect, but which made you think about yourself in some way.
Disagreeing with your elders (without combusting)
None of this is an attack on Billy Collins. He’s good at what he does. He’s clear, he’s hospitable, he’s funny. The Lanyard is a certified classic. His advice will point toward a mode that suits him.
What this road-trip Masterclass binge did, though, was force me to say out loud:
“Oh. That’s not my goal at all.”
Which is a terrifying sentence the first time you say it about craft advice. It sounds like you’re confessing to being wrong. Or immature. Or “not serious.”
But poetry isn’t a single-player game where one person finds the rules and everyone else copies them forever.
So maybe that’s the actual takeaway here:
- His poems can have doormats if they want.
- Mine can have side doors, or trap doors, or weird mirrored hallways.
- His goal can be to make you fall in love with him.
- Mine can be to make you feel slightly haunted by something you thought you’d forgotten.
There’s room for all of that.