No, the ground
is not sinking.
And yes,
I believe
in us,
though
we may
tear apart
in two
directions.
I desire pines,
and you want
the unknown,
heading up, and up.
Our hands have
been tied
together.
Years now.
And you say
you see the clearing,
but I am losing
myself
in the trees.
(originally published in confetti, Fall 2023)
A Sale on eBay! A Newer Roomba!
I am happy with my dumb robot vacuum
though I nearly clicked Buy Now
with PayPal credit, thirty-six dollars
over twelve months, which is a more
tantalizing mountain, in increments,
if that’s the route I want to go, though
there have been, in the past two months,
too many sudden changes in my life.
I am reinventing myself, forming
new habits– I make my bed each
morning now that you’re not there
still sleeping when I awake, and
shave my armpits when black hairs
unfurl around my arms. For a while
I have been a wild animal and you
asked who I am now last time
you were over, saying now that we are
not together, you have good traits,
which is a phrase to run through mind
I promised not to think about, but
it’s true, my date– the first after
our ending– asked what are your
goals for your time? And
I blanked, what are my goals?
I had already told her about poetry,
that I am always reaching
for meaning that isn’t there.
I answered I want to reclaim
myself, and she said that’s
a lofty goal, without knowing
what I meant. I don’t even
know what I meant, and that
has always been my problem.
And my allure. We sucked
down cucumber gin and
left each other. Hanging.
(originally published in The Indianapolis Review, Spring 2025)
Liminal Minimal Animal
mortal in our exuberance when we burst we burst in ecstasy we swoon and rise
to the bellowing of fresh a beast so strong yet frail
the canvas for the future a marionette taut on string until eternity
dead of day you are a dog on the street seeking a dumpster to sleep
drink your wine young man
by the opening in the grass I have become a horse of lightning / scalded earth
can you say blood diamond
my broken body I am a glass of water on a hot day / floating in the sea and what can you say
you take me out for coffee at 11 AM and in the night take me to bed / blow
my brains out then tuck me in a blanket
(originally published in The Round, Fall 2023)
I was going to throw away the water
I was going to throw away the water
bottle then the river spoke: DO NOT
SPIT GUM INTO THE URINALS.
I was transformed. Red bumps rose
along the collar of my hand and I
scratched until boredom overtook
the revelation, the epiphany being
waste is measured in days I do
what I don’t want to be doing.
Rise with me past the prehistoric
era. I’ve chewed on ash rocks
for eternity. Dentistry
has not been kind. The drills
are getting longer, the routines
blurrier, my eyesight already
a ten twenty or whatever
the technical term for
poor, as in destitute,
as in the cursive graffiti
on the side of a brick
house on the road I live on,
the one-word message
sprawled in yellow
teeth I see every time
I smile widely
in a mirror,
any time I disappear
into a ripple.
(originally published in Unlikely Stories Mark V, Winter 2023)
Whole Foods
browsing is weird because space
however many flowers and fish
it fits we always run together
a long corporate sentence
that ends in lukewarm
food preparations by
the long long deli
with meatloaf
that sits under
meat lamp
for 5 long
hours
(originally published in Raw Dog Press, Summer 2025)
Copley Place
always sing-song through cacophonous crush
living – divorce drugs rising sea
in your tiny upstairs apartment you recommended me self-
help
and to your pug, too
before we walked through an abandoned train
in the rain kissed in the presence
of four-tiered mahogany
totem pole eight eyes surveillance for us was
the summer I was temporary on this earth
I could arrive on a plane share a maple blondie
at the Earth Fare’s café and go to your unfurnished
Copley place my ego was a red giant of course I’d go
supernova become a noble gas Narcissus
needed others stars to become a constellation
and vast darkness
(originally published in Buffalo buffalo Buffalo buffalo buffalo buffalo Buffalo buffalo, Spring 2024)
Within Reach
we walk on the bathroom tiles
of New Orleans pencil-sketching
web weaved towers called
the heart of an orange sadness
burning the closer we are
to touching we are made of
lightning and salt and still
can’t shock outside the fence
(originally published in BlazeVOX, Spring 2025)
Making Meaning Quarantine
this repetitive block of Earth
same moon I hear the fucking
crickets chirping in my LOUD
LAPTOP FAN fog fog forget-
me-not forget me I can’t even
see my fucking FAMILY MY
FAMILY LIVES other lives
in this forsaken simulation I
live wildly too I experiment
mac and cheese with minced
garlic and parsley but it is still
Kraft no not still it is MAGIC
anything that sustains me is
MAGIC no MAGIC is LOVE
what LOVE keeps me alive is
NECROMANCY okay now
watch me unscrew my head and
place it on your porcelain plate
and let me TELL you
a SECRET after DESSERT
I’ll wait
(originally published in Oddball Magazine, Summer 2024)
Silverlake Visitor
Comedy in those days was a sizzle reel of zingers
on a hot California night cruising through the lost
streets of Silverlake I picked you up we laughed
through a lethargic performance of the heart
and gave ourselves to the smog-filled stars above
(originally published in The Piker Press, Winter 2023)
25th
I wore a gray-black striped shirt. You made
me a cookie dough ice cream cake. We drank
Rebel IPAs that ended with a stabbing pain
in your stomach. You asked, are you mad I can’t
sleep with you? We drew a storm with cigarettes,
exchanged darkened clouds in our back alley.
And yes, we smelted iron before we slept,
and through this photo, I remember.
(originally published in Setu, Fall 2024)