Columbus.
Victorian Village.
Coming home.
A dog sometimes.
Desire.
Living.
The squeeze.
Without thinking.
The act.
The thinness of good.
How much regret.
At a party I said it.
Stung.
What?
The direction of history.
A rough shore.
To never return.
(originally published in JAKE., Summer 2024)
If California’s the Dream, Keep Dreaming
I arrived a grown child, thinking
this the place where everyone was
a star or– at least– a surfer.
I am neither. Every year
I look back and say my god! I’ve stayed
the same. For example: four billion years ago
I was a molecule in primordial soup,
spinning and swirling. Four billion years later,
I am a clerk at a convenience store, stocking lube and smiling.
Now? I am on the couch watching BoJack Horseman,
eating canned tuna and wondering if I am him.
Or– wait. I am in my car, stuck in traffic, honking
at a red light. Hell, I am driving a lemon,
barefoot in smog. This may be
a dream, but I feel cheated these days,
even if the sun shines– and it does– too brightly.
(originally published in Sunhous Review, Fall 2024)
In Line
Seconds
pass. Butterflies wing,
a note floats spring
sprawled across,
cursive,
swarming
into new jazz
harmony to
-gether in the
flying lease
of body.
(originally published in Ink Pantry, Summer 2025)
Interview Season
You didn’t take me seriously
when I said I was qualified.
It’s okay. Money grows
on certain trees, and people
like you pluck them leaf-
less. I want to hold the roots
in my hands, my long and
hardened hands. I want to make
a phone call on your behalf.
I wish I had a trust
fund. Someone I trust
to grow within me.
A seed that sees
how dark the world
becomes without
the light to grow,
planted anyway.
(originally published in Poetry Pacific, Spring 2025)
Industry Burnout
I am not this negative.
I look at Post-It note
days and see a march
of white beneath, my life
before me on corkboards,
dilapidated. I used
to joke easily in this junk-
yard, chasing wayward
clouds in the sunset,
in awe of our city’s
little skyscrapers
over shards of broken
bottles on asphalt.
And you’d join me,
too, running across
the parking lot,
the cars rolling
over blue bridge,
roaring, as we
were under it
at the mercy
of an aged
but comforting
infrastructure.
I don’t know
if I have changed,
or if the world
is wearier, how
I don’t even
look for the
weather when
I open
the door
to leave.
(originally published in A God You Believed In, Fall 2023)
Sixth Anniversary
As dark as this February has been
we still drank roses underground tonight.
We ate our fill of chestnuts and napa,
carried egg tarts uphill
under a rare, green comet,
and enjoyed the new taste
at home.
(originally published in Last Leaves, Fall 2023)
To Kingsford (From DQ)
You knew my name, pulled me
from the dark. How many times
have I died? How many alive?
I was a ghost. A breath. You
caught my scent. Made me flesh.
(originally published in Sybil Journal, Summer 2025)
Northbound on I-279 in November
the leaves are changing and so
is our relationship the bare arms
exposed green and red forging
forward to the next when you want
the open road it was always what I
wanted though I’d never admit that
hurtling toward work the everyday
mundane our infrastructure finally
I do not know what is beyond
the next bend construction cones
over grass long forgotten words
another dead deer on the left side
of the highway where I have
traveled often just to get here
(originally published in Orenaug Mountain Poetry Journal, Fall 2024)
Dynamic
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)
Forty Years From Now, This Poem Will Make Sense (Disregard if Forty Years Have Passed)
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)