the plan Sunday was take it easy
1 drink at the new brewery
instead we ran into 2 friends
then drank in the sunlight
among dogs on the patio
we walked five miles
through a cemetery
through the city
to another brewery
got drunk
on automated ordering
tech for our fast times
we packed Spider-Man 2 cards
we thought we would play
instead we drank with 2 friends
in 90 degree heat
taking it easy
(originally published in A Thin Slice of Anxiety, Winter 2023)
Sushi at
Nakama–
ginger pink,
wasabi,
soy sauce poured
over rice.
Amateurs,
but we love
each other.
(originally published in All Your Poems, Summer 2025)
open shutters overlook
bells umbrellas energy
I watch all day I am
one pedestrian watch
as clock hands reach
slowly one way up
to us which direction walk
the bridge over the river
time the cobblestone path that
firms as marks hands gaff tape
on what slips this
plane this coil weeks
wanting not just this country
to last forever but what seeds
of doubt to be taken by wind
stolen by gnats
who sneak and fly into our space
if they could digest what
we put down plans to live
here in two years that cannot
come too fast it will arrive
a bullet train when we are
sleeping on a humid night
in the future
our
traveler bags brown
and green means
the forest meaning opposite
of open road if time
were this ambiguous than
I want nothing to do with it
but its hands are in everything
bugs in the unfinished chianti
drown and nothing
I can do to help
and I don’t want to
drink but I do
(originally published in The Round, Spring 2025)
This matches the atmosphere of pre-pandemic Ineffable Cà Phê–
seated at a mahogany table stealing vibes from strangers. Ahead:
a Jennifer Lawrence doppelgänger wearing monotone, who types
quietly in a portrait mode of cedar wall & soft lights, spooning phở;
next table over, prospective homebuyers: a Kyle Wolff in
a psychedelic Dixie Cup shirt alongside his partner, crumpled over
with a realtor who holds printed-out pages of wanted foundations.
The agent leaves and they scroll Zillow; there is a void where you
used to be; October sixty degrees spent inside, no regrets this
Halloweekend. I spy on everyone. Nebby is what Pittsburgh calls it.
I look up to see a white bowl covering a face, noodles dangling
off lips chased with chop sticks. The amber light’s flatness inspires.
Indie Interpol playlist a throwback to spending days at Muggswiggz
in Canton with Tony, soliciting strangers on Myspace for randomness.
I haven’t changed as much as I wanted. Crumbs from the bread
of my chicken bánh mì, scattered across my laptop. I swipe them
away, but dislodge more in the keys the longer I type.
(originally published in Picture Journal, Fall 2024)
I don’t want to return
to SLC– I know
it’s only fifty percent
congregational.
But the world seems
cultish.
Its sand revolts
the way a graduate
of Christian school
crashes into a rock
while rafting
whitewater,
begging salt
to return an act
of thirst.
(originally published in Writer’s Block Magazine, Winter 2025)
And if I didn’t want it?
I would have it. Look at
us– we are in love, long
grass abundant around us.
This should be enough
and you have it, what I want
you won’t give. What you want
I can’t do– not in my lack
of trying, but the extreme
wealth of it, the love we have
a mountain rising into fog,
the peak no longer visible
as I hook into my bootstrap
and you hook into yours.
(originally published in Dandelion Scribes, Spring 2025)
Used to be you’d be the one
I’d tell balloons to– the moon
changed positions in the sky,
obscuring Orion. I’d wake
and brew you coffee dark
as peering down a well,
then drop into your cosmos,
dreams you just survived
in the night. This left me
an azure hue to proceed
through the day, delivering
good news of bread and butter
to those who were hungry
in my chosen city’s streets
of lead. I’d hold gold. Now
I am present in the intersection
of three rivers, a bridge
standing on steel Xs on
a stack. I want to be a pillar
for all who drive me home.
(originally published in Ariel Chart, Spring 2024)
Last night, I dreamt I stood
on a tall stack of books, gathered
with others around a roof
like we were at a dinner party.
When I glanced down– finally,
from the top of my tenuous skyscraper,
I had to brace my shoe against
the house to keep myself
from falling back into reality,
but I did anyway, repeating
to the guests anxiety,
anxiety, anxiety.
I used to dream I’d get so high,
anything was possible. I entered a tower,
beelined to the elevator, and pushed
the button to the top. Sometimes
the platform was already ascending.
Sometimes the whole structure was.
When the doors (if they existed) parted,
the view from the sky was so rich,
I had to be dreaming. Deep tree greens.
Eternal ocean blue. I returned
to this view often, but stopped
near the end of my twenties. I was
itinerant at the time, my life
still an open road ahead
of me. A million meanings yet
to interpret. Not yet bogged by
a steady job but not quite steadied,
living off the promises of strangers
and the engine of my Ford Fiesta,
emitting exhaust into the atmosphere,
accumulating.
(originally published in Artvilla, Winter 2024)
I bet you have
a mansion. You sell
land at true
cost– blood-
soaked
beasts,
all the kingdom
in your pocket,
the precious
metals
polished
at your feet,
hungry stars needing
forever
more. I wish
that for you– my hunger
tastes of bitter
rosemary,
the dreams
of a plot
go on through
the storm.
(originally published in Trigger Warning Magazine, Winter 2025)
So, you caught
me dozing.
Our bed a compass
without direction.
We buy a home
we say will wrench
us from the dredges
we have been stuck
in, the blue head-
lights pointing up,
forever, the language
of our love.
(originally published in Bindweed Magazine, Summer 2023)