A Tale of Towels and Book Reviews

All I need is your belief

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Before we get to the poetry…

I am working long and hard to bring legitimacy to this creative space, but I can’t do it alone. I need your help.

Have you been enjoying the offerings here on Crossbite? Does the language interest you? Do the poems lead to interesting questions?

If the answer to any of the above is “yes,” I hope you will consider letting the world know.

The ask is simple: Please consider taking 2 minutes to leave an honest Amazon review for Party Animals, my poetry collection. As of this writing, Party Animals has 2 reviews on Amazon, and every single one makes a tremendous difference.

Over thirty readers have already purchased a copy. Whether or not you have enjoyed your purchase, I’d love to get your feedback. You are are a fundamental part of my vision for Crossbite. Without you, there is no dream.

Regardless: thank you, thank you, a million times thank you for continuing to read and engage. This project gives me purpose through the good times and the bad; I hope I will be able to repay the generosity you have already offered as a Crossbite subscriber.

Now, on to the good stuff!

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Fifteen Towels



Sometimes thought is wringing a dry towel. 
	Sometimes lint can get a little gray.

I apply for work at the towel store with a shining face 
	and blank résumé.

Look at me, I say to the manager of towels. Acne-free 
	for years — a cardinal success I attribute to the grace 
	of good linens.

I can see that, says the towel-man. What I really need 
	to assess is your capacity to embrace oral history.

He continues without pause: there’s a story to the inner life 
	of towels as vast and complex as it is long-lived.

Prometheus brought fire, for instance, we know this. 
	Yet also when the time of ancient man to feast 
	and founder came to its violent end, Talos’ towel 
	is what he used to put it out.

We wipe it all away, this pain. His tone becomes urgent. 
	He shakes me by the shoulders. We absorb, we retain, 
	and for what?

Hey man, I just want to know if you offer health insurance, 
	I say. And employee discounts on towels.

I need you to broaden your focus, he says. 
	Expand your consciousness beyond the light 
	of what you know. Your vision is bound up in towels. 
	I will free it!

He slaps me on both cheeks and tenderly kisses my forehead. 
	T(w)o(wel) employees emerge from a closet 
	and wrap me in the warmth of freshly-laundered towels. 
	For a moment I shudder with complete awareness.

Do you know what is meant by grace? He asks. Sure, I say, 
	it’s the warmth of freshly-laundered towels.

Something in these words anger him. The towel-man sours, 
	strips me of my towels, turns me out on the street 
	with incoherent curses.

Sometimes feeling is a slap from the towel that follows. 
	A betrayal that worsens.

There is nothing more brave than a shower without towels. 
	I will not know peace in a world that is wet.

All I need is your belief: where we mean to go, we go. 
	The towels of the past will burn. Human sense is there, 
	waiting with a can of lighter fluid. In poetry, the match 
	is assumed; here, nothing happens unless 
	you bring a spark.

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