Chad Reynolds

Autocollaboration w/ Facebook Updates


My friend’s wife likes to post about how it’s been three days

since she last worked out.

It seems like she posts this every three days.

I wrote something regretful on her wall then went to bed.


The next day I went to Pizza Hut and wondered

what the waiter had posted to her wall that morning before she left for work.


I bet it was something like

RIP Salinger

or RIP Michael

or RIP Farrah.


I think preachers should pay attention to what moves people online.

There may be a new grammar of grief.

Maybe people are just showing off.


I got a message from a person I hadn’t thought of in years.  

Nobody special, nobody even worth mentioning.

I forgot to respond to his message for ten weeks.

Then I felt bad about this.


Life is not what I thought it would be.

Somehow I thought it would involve

less time on the computer

and more sex.


I heard about a teenager that became obese from too much time on the computer.  

I am eating a bowl of oatmeal with dried apricots and figs

because we are out of bread.

I usually eat bread for breakfast.

I can’t believe there are still some people who boycott bread.

Emily has been baking.

She chastises me. You could prepare bread too, you know, she says.

But I can’t. I can’t make bread

when I can’t even respond to a simple message.

There are too many moving parts in this world

and I am so angry right now.











Autocollaboration w/Chad Reynolds


When I Google myself

I find this Chad Reynolds in Florida

who just last summer

went missing.

He was a sex offender.

I hate the name Chad.


There is another Chad Reynolds

who played baseball at Texas Tech.

Chad Reynolds, if you are reading this,

I quit baseball my senior year to spend spring break in the Bahamas.

I didn’t even get laid.

I’m sorry.


A Chad Reynolds somewhere else is a programmer.

I don't know much about this one

except that I feel like I'm programmed

to be self-absorbed.


There is another poet Chad Reynolds

who wrote a famous poem called

"The Man with the Mike in his Hand."

You can see a video of him reading it on YouTube.

When you press the play

you see a black screen

with "Chad Reynolds" in yellow letters

and hear Chad say (without seeing him)

"I wrote this one for all of us,

all of us who get up here and read anyway."

I like how it starts universal,

like it was really written for all of us,

all of humanity,

and then he backpedals in the next line

to say he’s writing just for poets,

and only for poets who read at open mic nights.

The video's been viewed 178 times.


There's a clip of me reading on YouTube, too.

I'm reading a poem called "Myth" I wrote for my blog.

Here is a revised version:


I had a myth that started to break down,

even when I let it take naps in the afternoon.

Nothing worked.

My myth was dying.


I walked along the highway to Target

to find a new myth.

Drivers honked their car horns and made hand gestures.


At Target, I browsed for hours.

When the salesperson said it was time to go,

I decided that more than some myth,

I needed the toaster oven on sale for $19.99 and a box of Pop



Whenever I Google "Chad Reynolds"

I reluctantly watch this video of me.

I take a long time to start reading  

and my leg moves a lot.

And at the end I always want people

to clap sooner than they do.











Yard Work


Why write about Yard Work

when there is yard work.

A Bartlett pear tree to plant.


When land becomes Landscape

what happens to the land?


I have never seen a painting of a worm.


This house is a home,

but so what?

At the Horizon

is only horizon.

It lights up twice a day

and is less impressive

than a lamp.


Between the beginning

and end of vision

my son sits

under our new pear tree

and eats dirt.













Walking on a dead end street

another country calls the bottom of a bag,

I trespass on lawns

past neighbors’ closed blinds.

A hired guard roams in a Dodge.

I keep my eyes on the ground.


Did the Middle Ages ever exist?

There are still castles

and this is their moat.

Here, nothing intersects.


In this place of bottlenecks,

where there is only one way in or out,

there is isolation, then death.


In this place of suspicion

everyone must believe in something.

I believe in nothing

but strangers.













Animals leave tracks

and snow melts.

I would be frustrated about this

if I were snow.

Or if I were animals.

Always becoming