Nick Viau
Writer | Poet | Observer
I write about ordinary things. The kind most people pass by until they quietly reveal something extraordinary.
My work begins in small, scrambled spaces: fountain pen, paper, and the scattered thoughts of my life. From there, I scrape away the shavings until I find something deliberate—poems and stories that capture a feeling long enough for it to spread.
Writing is my way of paying attention. Of understanding what I might have overlooked while navigating the noises of my life.
This site is where I share that work. Poems and stories shaped from the quiet details most of us learn to ignore.
If you would like to interact with me and my work, subscribe to “Point of Viau” on Substack.
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Ford Field Fireball
Ford Field FireballBy Nick Viau Two dead soldiers proneatop the toilet paper,in a shitter stall. Shooters, both of them. Snuck past stadium guards,in forbidden areas.Frisking thighs and hips—never the genitals. Not in Detroit. Violatedby cinnamon whiskey.A slow burning trickle,at half time. Another drunkpounds dents in fresh aluminum.Hinges rattling on the bolts. His “teeth are floating”and…
“Scoops”
“Scoops” was like a grandfather clock,chiming to a town of trolls. That’s what they called us:trolls beneath the Bridge. He scratched a life on legal pads,balled up and tossedtoward a wire basketin a cobwebbed cornerof the Cheboygan Tribune. For decades,he was the blood in our veins. Folded over by time,chattering teeth and keys. I miss…
Answer
I look to the moonwhen the path is lost. It glows yellow,sometimes white with lies. Men gatherthin and knotted,in the shade. They hurltheir splintered limbs. A sharp crack.My heels answer. “You are something to fear,”I whisper to the dark. Jaws pop.Talons rake.The woods and wind strikea dissonant chord. And I don’t believe a word. Subscribe…