William Teets

William Teets is an author and poet born in Peekskill, New York, who has recently relocated to Waterford, Michigan. He immensely misses New York pizza, the Hudson River, and his beloved Mets. He will write. He will survive.

Mr. Teets facilitates a writers’ workshop in Waterford, along with poetry open mics, in hopes of enhancing the literary arts scene in southeast Michigan. With both published and unpublished writers, and support from the local community, the Waterford Writers’ Workshop has been a success. Temporarily derailed by Covid-19, the workshop resumed on July 6th and an Open Mic is scheduled for October 23rd.   

Mr. Teets’ works have been published in Chronogram, The Deadly Writers Patrol, Ariel Chart, Drunk Monkeys, Impspired, Cajun Mutt Press, Literary Yard, Art and Life, as well as in numerous anthologies.    


I looked everywhere—
Behind the spiral speared iron fence that
protected Sister Mary and Father Joe from the
unclean masses
Behind the stick of the Coliseum Bar 
Dr. John shoo-shoo-shooing me away
I even looked in the great big lost and found box
down at the Salvation Army 
He was nowhere to be found
I thought I saw Him in Wal-Mart but that
was just some really big fat guy who glided on a
scooter and bought Ding-Dongs only for himself
Thought I spied Him in the liquor store buying 
Crown Royal and Lucky Strikes 
but it wasn’t Him
just some oily dude about to get greased 

I was lied to
God was nowhere to be found

A little boy told by his mother his
dog didn’t die but was on a farm—happy—
with Old MacDonald and 
all the other undeclared dead   


Chillin’ with Chelsea, but 
only for a while

Dharma Bums and Expanded Keats took me back
way, way, back
Further than I needed to go
My dream-bag dragged across the barroom floor and 
I could’ve stayed like old times, when wolves circled the door
Distant days echoed a maddening crowd
Broken brittle leaves shadowed unwelcomed hordes 
I had to, but didn’t want to,
go back home
to an empty kitchen, parlor, bedroom, too
Autumn branches tapped dirty on cracked window panes 
Whiskey and Winstons replaced your charms
At least until tomorrow,
when I’ll be,

Chillin’ with Chelsea, but	
only for a while


(Previously published by Cajun Mutt Press, November 2019)
I called but no one was home.
She’s like a ’74 Chevy on concrete blocks.
A chained hound who howls in the yard.
A torn orange flag ripped by rain. 

Shit, that was from the day at the Syracuse Fair,
where cotton candy tastes like Saturday afternoon.
Nothin’ to show but a Coney dog and busted lip
for talkin’ too loud at the Howard Street homeboys.
Beneath the statue of Save Me Now Saint Peter,
behind the burned-out ice cream stand.
Over near the shoreline, just south of Salt Lake.
Wildin’ out and shoutin’,
Salt for my Cuervo
Salt for my nuts
Salt taste between her legs

Romeo and Juliet?
Nah, Thorogood and the Destroyers.

Damn, my hoodie don’t cover my face.
Damn, life been comin’ hard at me.

I’m rockin’ the Amtrak headed south.
Over rails made from cobblestone and broken bone.
Straight to New York City.
Straight into sin. 
I pray for her and
Saint Peter to come and
take me down.

But my dreams are cotton candy.
I have salt in my veins. 

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