I want to splurge on dive bars and thrift stores
I want a shore brimming with relics
in our endless quest for cash
in our ceaseless self-tweaking
I wish I were young again
instead of scrounging for change
this time I would do with less greed
more humility
without peaks
without verdicts
I’d be a sip of Scotch whiskey
a tyrant with a mild vice
who would admire the painting
without caring who painted it
(originally published in Winamop, Winter 2024)
When Josh lingers at the end
of the workday, I think of Stand
By Me: kids’ backs covered
in leeches in the woods–
can’t push away or peel
him off, his limb-thin branches
that walk out into the dark
parking lot and back in
to bug us, again and
again, scribbling his
footprints all over concrete
in a scuffmark infinity.
I have never seen someone
so happy to have shot someone.
He returned one
weekend from Albany,
roaring with energy, eager
to tell the whole office
that burglars stole half-
million dollar lamps
from his house, but he’s
glad they did not get it
all, and how he perched
for several hours on his
staircase, alongside the fading
sun– the story convoluted
and convulsed in his hands,
the several times I heard
it told in the hallway,
in the kitchen, showing
photos of hideous antiques.
He claims to know they would
be coming. And that he
was getting updates
on the critical person’s
condition, and the words
come bursting out of his
mushroom cloud mouth
that he would have loved.
(originally published in Toasted Cheese Literary Magazine, Spring 2024)
the carcass hangs
someone
try one on
(originally published in Versification, Summer 2023)
there is no end
to wanting a better
anything. I have
driven through
stop signs on rural
roads in afternoon
light envisioning
the reality where
I have arrived
faster at our house
and you’re happy
about it for those
few extra seconds
but time is fog
that dissipates
anyway, being
that yesterday
we loved each other
and today we
are sitting at the top
of the stairs to our
bedroom petting
the cat who survived
our downfall
and mourning the one
whose heart clotted
because of it. you
notice bubbles of
water in the blue
textured wall and
we burst into
the day’s remainder,
moving temporary
belongings around
again, this time
with no effort
of emotion, no pull-
each-other-closer
because the house
has seen its share
of endings and
beginnings, I’m
sure, if we are
to frame it in
those terms
already the memories
have taken control.
(originally published in OPEN: a journal of arts & letters, Fall 2024)
but the sun still floats past 8 PM
& I wonder where time went
sunk in the blue glow
of overheating machines
it is Monday
and everyone hates Mondays
because this past weekend
I went to a house concert
in the state I once lived in
only to return to the wheel
and drive a few marathons
windows open music loud
past spontaneous roadkill
and honeybee fields
last night I slept on a pile
of unsigned documents
dreamt of paper cuts
and Parochial school
I bought green bananas
for the office
and by the end
of the day
they were brown
(originally published in The /temz/ Review, Spring 2025)
In your dream you murdered me.
I am just happy you dreamt of me.
Carried chopped pieces
of me in your tote bag, hid me
under your sink among the grocery
bags and water stains. In the second
half of your dream, you said
I got out from under the sink
and said I got you! And I always
will, pieces of you I carry
with me, your proverbial
heart in mine, your eyes
locked in mine, your
subconscious wrestling
our not-so-tiny distance,
where when I moved
I thought you’d never think
of me, that what you’d carry
was the end, the sloppy end
with the broken bones,
the cut-up conversations,
the disjointed hugs in
summer heat, the space
we loved to share, daylight
hours a cool shade
of blue, a shield
in which we wished
for our shadows
to never escape
or at least hold
the other’s fading
light. I never want
to be surprised
when our paths
cross next in life,
how I miss the days
you’d inhabit all my
dreams, days,
the whole field
and the entirety
beyond.
(originally published in The Pierian, Fall 2024)
the provision
the carcass
provision
the carcass
a carcass
to provide
the carcass
blaze
(originally published in Roi Fainéant, Fall 2023)
I have lived enough to knife
through precious indifference:
time to say goodbye, sang
Andrea Bocelli through my
childhood’s echoing eardrums,
banging through the baseball
game of stressful situations.
How I overcame my fear
of public speaking was when
I was believed in, once,
to deliver Wayne’s wedding
from obliteration (green
in the cleaved landscapes
I scampered fully across)
and the contentment rings
high in vibrato today.
(originally published in Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Fall 2023)
the dog is always
greener
in the land of
pleasant living
if we could pour
our hands
over the promise
of fence
into wild dandelion
weeds of
contentment
on a fake summer
day
the reticent
dog is the one
to pet
not the meme
celebrity
husky
or perhaps
we want
to live again
in the way
that dogs do
refreshing
the page
every fourteen
seconds
or days or
years
the grandma
calls this celebration
of life a resort
and we call
the dealer’s hand
too forgetful
to recall
the spade
drafted in
the lush
unkempt
garden
shuffle
the cards
repeatedly
to delay
the inevitable
(originally published in Pinhole Poetry, Fall 2023)
The closest I will ever be
to the moon is on this plane
over Charlotte, returning
from my cousin’s wedding
in Huntsville, Alabama.
Face pressed against
the window I overlook
the wing where light
reflects off wing– a
certain curved angle
makes two moons.
Earlier, the sunset
was rust. This morning,
we had brunch
at The Broken
Egg, my distant family
sat across the
table from me,
the length
of a Filipino flag,
the closest
we will ever be.
(originally published in The Round, Spring 2025)