Brian Eckert

Writer. Wanderer. Dreamer. Skeptic. Man.

New Year’s Resolution

Summer lies sleeping and I’m another year

Older, tireder, dumber, obsoleter.


Horton hears a who and I don’t care.

Duck wings like wind chimes.

Young girls riding their bicycles for the last time.

So many problems in the world;

I’m supposed to pick one and make it my own, while

Daylight scares the daylights out of me.


Fall is the feeling of comfortably sliding into death.

Come winter, nothing matters anymore.

Calm After the Storm

Jim Creek Trail, Arapaho National Forest

Winter Park Resort, Colorado

St. Elmo’s Fire

St. Elmo’s Fire. St. Elmo’s Fire! St.Elmo’s Fire?

Words flashed into a mind on a teleprompter.

St. Elmo’s Fire: a place? a type of lighting? a meteorological phenomenon?

St. Elmo’s Fire: a pre-man Darkness, heart of Dark Africa.

St. Elmo’s Fire: a seafood canning company based in New Orleans.

New Orleans. St. Elmo’s Fire.

St. Elmo’s Fire left between the cushions of the couch. New Orleans went through the wash.

St. Elmo’s Fire and New Orleans drip-dripping on my nose but it isn’t raining.

St. Elmo’s Fire, I despair.

Ice Age



Killing Time on the Killing Floor

He seemed sober, but it wasn’t noon yet. That would change soon, in the dark confines of a restaurant one mile from the winter’s beach, on a cloudy last day of the year, amidst wood paneling and benches.

This place, in the style of a German beerhall, is the sort of place where the as-yet-to-be-named Führer proclaimed to stunned, sodden patrons that the Revolution had begun.

The Führer before me, wearing epaulets of tanning bed flesh, unbeknownst to him carries on the fractal discourse of history.

All of this has happened before and will happen again.

Over several pints we discuss the relative merits of libertarianism, which seems to be the party of choice for high-functioning alcoholics.

Sensing my disinterest in what he has to say he turns his attention to the waitress, a woman of vaguely Eastern European appearance (I guess Polish; he says Bulgarian). Her eyes reflect the ancestral ache of recognizing this little Führer before her. Heading him off at the pass she informs us that she will be attending First Night with her boyfriend.

Rebuffed twice now he sulks in-between long draws of ale.

A thinly veiled hatred is what keeps our friendship alive, because we secretly require the admiration of those we disdain.

Hate, not love, makes the world go round. If all were love equilibrium would quickly be reached. There would be no more “progress.” All Führers great and small know this.

We get into his BMW and drive the coastal highway, remarking on the stunning regularity of seaside strollers. During winter the world is more opaque. Words hang in the air like breath. The long easy days of summer seem unthinkable. Everyone complains about the cold but without it their lives would collapse under the weight of levity.

He turns the radio loud, lights a cigarette. I ask him to stop so I can stretch my existential legs. The sea—rolling uninterrupted all the way to Mars, tides unable to break the spell of destiny—is so dull it makes me furious.

There are seven hours left in the year, though you wouldn’t know it by the god awful slow plodding walkers who flap their arms in the cold mist like drunken seagulls.

Dead Leaves and the Dirty Ground

Spirit Falls (Andrea Falls), Cottage Grove, Oregon



Yaquina Head Lighthouse


Low Tide



Autzen Stadium, University of Oregon

Lock Her Up



Ice Sculpture


Fear the Sower