Bananas everywhere make me hungry.
The doormat, the neon sign, the sticker
on your Apple– I can’t help it. My
cuteness doesn’t preclude that I am part
wolf. A ruthless hunter. When I run
across the rug to your room I want you
to throw fruit on the floor just to bite off
the peels. I’ve had my eyes on inedible Ethel
the Christmas Chicken when I learned she’s
still a chicken. For once I want a sandwich.
Put me in your cart with a potato gun
at Sam’s and we’ll hold that whole
place up. As you ransack the banana stand,
I’ll loot the deli and meet you in the middle.
(originally published in Jokes Review, Summer 2020)
snake hangs slim
from taboo stick
to feast your wild
side come hither
to lips and burn
through the road
of night then eat
a single egg and
call it your meal
for the year call
this your baby
call this your
tongue but slither
and dig your
hole when you
(originally published in Euphemism, Spring 2020)
You scared the shit out of me– I am
creeping on influencers. They buy
stock-tank pools and place it in front
of suburban blue skies of suburbs.
There, the saturated grass. Watch
the rubber ducky floating in the face-
book blue water, preternaturally still.
(originally published in Erothanatos, Summer 2021)
I thought by now the whistles would warp us
to a future in peace jump me ahead of this dark
underground level Mario I have crushed
enough Koopas to keep my genocidal ancestry
whooping from their battleground graves didn’t
feel much sanctity from Arlington Cemetery
sorry when they buried my brother at Ohio
Western Reserve gravestones orderly as pill
bottles on the shelves of corporate pharmacy
what rings in my brain are the gunshots
of old white veterans fired during Clinton’s
final ceremony bullets whizzing up the sky
just to land on the dirt covering
graves of my genocidal ancestry
(originally published in Impspired, Spring 2020)
My face pressed to the window screen– black pick-up trucks
pass. A little bit of breeze is recommended to ground yourself.
Such violence in a chicken nugget. If I think about vegetable
intelligence, I will allow myself only to eat white mulch. When
becoming grass, nothing happens to the soul. Clumps of earth
inside my fingernails when I scratch at the dirt, and still I weed
myself to the idea that beauty is ubiquitous in nature. At the sky
I choke on the concept of air. That my lungs work all living
hours, ununionized, is betrayal. My desk chains me
to the dark, and still I have the heart to look out a window?
(originally published in TRIBES, Fall 2021)
I read that gun store
sales have surged, that
they have lines around the
chopping block. So we
decide when shots
rupture our street,
we’ll drive to my mom’s–
far from any city–
instead of hiding in a
closet in our basement
Should we go there now?
No, we should wait it out.
We uncork a white wine
and play twenty games
of Trouble. Hours of
moving plastic pieces in
circles. Though trapped
in a bubble, the die
dictates our every move.
(originally published in Capsule Stories, Spring 2020)
Hands are raw from cheap soap
and scrubbing. We’re jobless now
so here’s the sink full of
better times we’re rinsing.
Let’s rearrange the living
room, drag the couch
from the side wall
to the back wall,
place the coat rack
in a different dusty corner,
treat the TV like
the god it wants to be.
There will be many
forms of worship,
Finally, I have time
to make music
and poetry but
I can’t put my phone
for each cog of society
as it breaks down.
should we hang
art on the walls?
I ask, what art?
(originally published in American Writers’ Review, Summer 2020)
Nothing to start conversation with
but the glow of television, hors d’oeuvres
the crowd devoured and I could only stand
and gape at the electric wiring strung along
the ceiling that led to the hanging light
fixture, a metallic apple dimmed. I wanted
to talk about architecture but felt wildly
inadequate due to the bricks missing
in my brain, hammers clanking where
words should, my mouth full of nails.
(originally published in Poetry Super Highway, Summer 2020)
The dirt underneath my fingernails!
When did hands
become so large
and so filthy
(originally published in Cough Syrup Magazine, Spring 2020)
partying was the new
beginning growing up how birdlike
I rose from the ash of a suburb
to learn a new suburb how limiting
to be alive in a time of bubbles
floating in a happy blur
days to pop
(originally published in Erothanatos, Spring 2020)