Whatever power dynamic carburetor heat engine
lightning car accident awestruck hum? Sign me
off of your autographed lemons. Peach sticki-
ness on the homefront wonderwall water cooler
laughability. The job’s a job don’t make it
awkward staircase holly oxen pulling the cart
up the hill, old buffalo, the sneering stare,
the huff of whoever is there.
(originally published in Ballast Journal, Summer 2023)
I am sentient
enough– half-
asleep at the
wheel
I already
miss you
if I miss
my turn,
misguide
my controlling
hands into
another lane.
I have a tote
of sorrows
lugged
into a luggage,
third floor closet,
plastic blue bag
crinkling
in the night.
I wish–
I want–
you never
to read them.
This is a message
to me
from half
my current age–
though revelation
is what
I want
to avoid,
it is now
(was?)
true.
(originally published in Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Fall 2023)
Lilly asks as we leave
the Highland Park pool
do you need
a dinosaur figurine?
I look at the lost
and found table
she points to, and
I make mental dots
for sprawling trinkets
that must have meant
something to someone,
once, trying to determine
what she means by dinosaur–
is it the green color shining
off plastic rings? The fake
bird feathers? She points
again and this time I follow
to a rubber Tyrannosaur, no
ambiguity, Yes, my cat died
this morning. Yes, right after
the break-up. Because I fit what
doesn’t make sense into butterflies,
love, and the stillness around me.
You ask, can you envision
our future together? I see it
in our palms: a tree with a million
branches, and on the other
hand, a tree with a billion
branches, and on another,
a tree full of open hands.
(originally published in Dandelion Scribes, Spring 2025)
I believe I tend to complicate
all matters, but when I strain
I remember we are one unified
being swimming between the lie
of stars as tides sweep over the city.
Quiet night– at least no one
seems to mind the oak of
my cologne. I can smell
the earth and the rain all around,
the seaweed everywhere.
The tang of time is yellow,
maybe parched, alongside
herbal tea and
cool desiccation.
I am on
the beach below her, watching clouds,
splintering sky, my eternal life
a big house just waiting to
sell to a surfer. Above, the yellow light
depends on the seasons, the turquoise
narrows the closer it gets to the blue,
coinciding with what looks like a different wave.
(originally published in In Parentheses, 2023)
corkscrew splits when prying loose
coppola‘s aged cabernet sauvignon
you once opened a bottle in a hotel
with a flatiron i bring down a steamer
the bottle perspires with no release my cat
nearly walks into the heat i’m thankful you are
present my spine so soft can’t keep anyone
safe best not dwell my memories
are triglycerides clinging the tender
parts of brain we go downhill to rite-aid
we’re told it’s barren look elsewhere
a beer store closing the clerk in desperate
gasp seeks three screws he can use
to make a tool makeshift but alas
the shoe method works he says take
your boot pound with force try
as we might against my home’s brick no
way to get how we feel into the open
(originally published in RUNDELANIA, Fall 2024)
Don’t freak out– it’s just fog–
soft as breath on your neck–
it is us, trying to salvage
this mess. A flower wilting
in morning, a scream, no rain,
a meadow in Maine where
we buried our secrets.
We don’t know shit about right
or wrong. About how deep
the wound goes. Only that the fog
is us: our spit, our blood, our love.
We fog up the windows, the mirrors,
the sky. We’re making Maine our own.
(originally published in Pandemonium Journal, Summer 2024)
in my eyes beloved song
thrumming anew at the feed
because water wants what
water cannot understand
it is ephemeral all
wings a blanket we carry
tucked in our pockets
alive and regenerative
each heartbeat nothing
precedes the moment
passes us here to have
and to proceed
(originally published in Caveat Lector, Summer 2025)
The repetitive techno at Trace
squelches and invades my ears
I am just trying to drink
coffee and move on with
my life in an aesthetically-
pleasing way with green
plaid and rough jeans
but flies swirl
around my head and
I can’t stop thinking
of you starting your
new job at the hospital
and all I want is to hold
your hand again with
the fingers currently
pressing up against
the dust of keyboard
and the history of
my heart plugged
into the wall where
ghosts walk through
all hours and stay
in the dark until
the mud begins
to dry at the crust
of my shoes
in the warm
mornings
(originally published in Disturb the Universe, Summer 2025)
Now that the hurricane
has passed with clear
skies, I have a chance
to explore my new
neighborhood.
I cut down trees
in my overgrowth
of memory. A long
driveway leads to
an abandoned mansion,
brown-bricked and sturdy.
The ghosts inside
I would evict completely
but I have some questions–
how did your love end?
I know one side
of the story, this mess
of leaves the formless
speak, garbled
waves a fog’s
difference. In how
I hear– in your
perception saying
what? Over and
over, chewing
the sustenance
I was fed. Ruins
rising in the moonlight
and you do not believe
in astrology or ghosts,
anything supernatural
except God, yes,
the bubbles of doubt
float into your vacancies
of faith you placed
between your thumb
and forefinger,
the Leaning Tower
of our trust
that could have been
plucked from
any old hairline.
(originally published in Dandelion Scribes, Winter 2025)
Now I have time
to experiment
preheat the room to three twenty five
saute the onions in butterflies
pour in garlic and butterflies
milkwhisk the butterflies
scrape the wings off my heart
and wait wait sixty-five to eighty–
to say what I have to say to you–
I can’t wait another minute.
(originally published in The Gorko Gazette, Summer 2024)