Poetry by Vince Nuzzo

                Nicolas Henderson CC
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​Impermanence 
5/13/2021

Literary mental qualifier first:  I wanna milk this psycho-physical, mystifying musical, addictively perfect ride as long and wide as humanly possible in all its complexities. Now,

Impermanence surrounds us.  Everywhere, everyday, on and in everything.  The paint will mildew and peel and rot on the house and shed bottom siding edges 'til it peels all their skin off.

Don't forget the shingles up top, you let that water pervade and sunshine dessicate, it all goes down to black earth quicker. How much maintenance you up for?  You and that BodyMind of yours, you and that vessel? Better have some Wildfire zest and fight the moss off if you wanna go long and take this thing into Extra Innings 'cause,
Death:  When the time comes, it just might be the best sleep you ever have.   





Revelation of the Simple 
5/1/2021

Recurring revelation endorphin rush served up tonite by white bean and butternut squash Mexican styled chili....Back in highschool and college--despite all my grandiose confidence that someday the world would be as I saw fit--I of course was still soaking wet behind the ears and only sure of one thing that remains with me today at fifty; many of those around me but for the animals, then and now, can't see the raw beauty of the simple staring at us, that we already have it made and just need to feel the ride, work the ride, savor and breath it in every day like heady rose aphrodisiac 'til we hit the dirt for good.

To be a poetic juvenile and drop into and onto every wave, halfpipe and mountaintop possible, play strange chords in the rain, that's it, fuck everything else, love and the essentials will find you, they'll fill in the cracks just like the Days Between and the staying Golden of Pony Boy;  all will be the wellest of well in the comfort of one's difference and ignoring of fitting in or conformity. That glory doesn't go away, just gets better. Grow, but never all the way or to anyone's standards but your own and the dumbfounding deadly serious grace constantly surrounding you. 





​Writer's Dove Casita 
4/11/2021

Where are you down there each winter, my friend asked? I said, At the end of the road where it turns to gravel, right before Mexico, just point your car due south from Missoula and you'll hit Ajo. There will be a sign that says Welcome to the Heart of the Sonoran Desert, "But It's a Dry Heat!"

The time has come to go, each day speeding by faster to the bitter end, back to the land of box store canyons and lawnmowers for now, time to struggle for a nickel, scuffle for a dime so I can secure a hall pass for next time.

And at the end of each season at the south Arizona writer's casita the Doves will be king, nesting on it,  owning every nook and cranny, strutting on the rooftop, living somehow again in the attic. Doves can be badasses, you should hear them growl, free security team if you don't mind the spackle.

Buddy asked, what are you drunk or on acid when you write that stuff? Not too much lately, I answered. Well, it would be pretty much impossible for my drinking not to lapse over into my writing at times, so to offset that I write more in the mornings now, I said.  It's all in you too, right up inside your skull, you've got enough serotonin up in there for a herd of pachyderms to get off, open the spigot and write it down. Trouble is, it's hard to keep up with sometimes if you got it flowing good, and just remember to try to shower off now and then.

Living like a homeless man who was given a casita in the heat of southern Arizona to write in hermitage can be a study on the effects of being unkempt, disheveled and unshowered for days. Perhaps my mother was right all along, don't let yourself get too unkempt. Wear a shirt or you don't want to know what will happen under your arms and on the sides of your body,  bring your antifungal spray


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Raised in Madison, Wisconsin, Vince Nuzzo bolted west to Missoula, Montana for the promise of college and adventure at the age of seventeen.  After spending a sporadically enrolled nine years reaching a B.A. in English/Creative Writing at the University of Montana, Vince has since bounced and bashed around the U.S. and Latin America with Missoula as basecamp, considering himself a citizen of the world more than of any one state.  His work and adventures have taken him high upon mountaintops and giant skateboard ramps, down into the rivers and deserts, out onto the sea and through many relationships, some successful, many not.  After a feverish run of writing creative non-fiction, the novel Thirst In Montana, and poetry in his younger years, Vince, now fifty, has of late succumbed to a burning, near constant urge to be getting it on the page again.  Vince, in a fit of experiential in the NOWNESS and at the time heavily influenced by reading 27 clubber, the late poet and singer Jim Morrison, threw an entire trunk of his writings, starting with his earliest, into a landfill during a move between homes.  This is a decision Vince will forever regret but it is also a grand motivator now in his search for the story and his need to tell it, along with the benefit of gaining some healing from life's dreads and wounds.  He's weathered two pulmonary blood clots and a DVT clot and now writes for himself first and foremost but considers anyone willing to take a look or two to be a brave, beautiful, encouraging soul.  Vince feels thankful to be writing again.

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