my own capitalistic heart?
Capitalistic Christmas for myself.
Cannibalistic love
of self. Entertainment in the draw-
strings of all the passing
days. Shortages
everywhere and yet–
And yet I have
to play the game
to survive in this capitalist
world. Take my days
away.
(originally published in Stickman Review, Fall 2023)
No Matter How We Love
reservoir fading skies
the greenest pine
needles tarantulas or
wedding vows jodhpurs
light silk sweat turtles amid
mountains two ducked hearts
murder in love a frozen deer
splinters of metal your abandoned
democracy you begin to run your
arms through the mists smugness
aloft the fruit of late season you
awake to feet of crystal stone
naked on a grass paradise plot
of your father’s estate how creeks
know of the sky’s smallest leaves
and their immense heart scents
of smoke the golden brown
of the soil actually stars
and no matter how we love
it does not end like a song
our tears pour but the storm
yes the storm dissolves
over us like fireworks
(originally published in Sybil Journal, 2025)
There must be a road to this
When you unwrapped the Instagram dog poems
and said this is my favorite poet, I wanted the book
to be a swan, wings of canvas, a bone in a beak,
saliva, paws sprinting across the muddy landscape
of instant ramen.
(originally published in Vroom Magazine, Winter 2025)
Take It Easy
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)
Lunch Date (Rare)
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)
Firenze
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)
Observation (October 29, 2022)
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)
Salt Lake City
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)
The Billionaires
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)
CBUS=>PIT
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)