I am shirtless. I am thirsty.
I drink an eternity
from my full glass of water
while my two friends kiss.
In the old house. The kitchen
with the steel island
I had lifted my glass
from. New lovers!
I stand
by the sink
filling my glass,
over and over
again, the faucet
a waterfall,
bountiful,
something like love–
it quenches,
but you must keep filling.
(originally published in BlazeVOX, Spring 2024)
I could be walking
on water down
the beach minding
my own business
a heron Jesus
and still at the splash
of your all
encompassing wingspan
I would not know
the difference
between a wave
and awash
(originally published in Avalon Literary Review, Summer 2024)
Black wig and grimebrown,
reach your hand to my hand.
Mimic a person (sooner and
sooner no one remembers) in
pretend interaction (if I could
color wry smiles I would
cover the world). Your old
dweller hobbles to mine,
withered from the silence.
We guess at the true age
of this era (graininess
invisible and anxious).
This is no old film.
Stuffed in sneakers, we act
through dilapidated cotton
(too far away, too tight a fit).
Let us breathe.
(originally published in The Globe Review, Summer 2023)
Food being energy–
that I eat and feel sleepy
is some sick joke. God
the jester in
his birthday suit,
blowing out the
candles
in the unlit
universe,
this small corner
of it, anyway,
where
I have turned
my back
on everything.
(originally published in Taj Mahal Review, Fall 2023)
I look for the endless
tunnel highway of light
if I see the golden
triangle pointing east
painting the far wall
spilling into another bucket
you are close enough to okay
(originally published in Poetry Super Highway, Fall 2024)
I have been that guy
sitting in his car on a dark
street headlights off in
the company of siren
cicadas during a festival
down the street its residents
wanting sleep I have been
that hungry that listless
that finished within porch
light of someone else’s home
while people who look
like your past
walk on by
(originally published in The Kolkata Arts Blog, Summer 2024)
Michael says actors are delusional–
the ones who star in poorly-scripted
films, over and over. How can they
live as soft-boiled eggs? I want to believe
in excellence, too. That love of craft–
steering ships– can navigate
to where one needs to go,
even when relentlessly punched
in the ring.
I, too, am weak, having
said the words of Winkler
for free
just to get on screen.
And the cost was
stock-video explosions
that were copyright
violations.
But to live a dream
(and dream
I do)
one must wake up
and say the words
to anyone who listens.
(originally published in Rind: An Online Literary Magazine, Summer 2024)
This could be the last weekend
before certain uncertainty.
Yes, I am a secret pessimist.
This year has been good
for that. I lost my line
of work due to pandemic,
but started a new one
born from it. When you
were crying from your
campaign job, worried
your boss might not
let you go to your
needed appointment
on Thursday, I told
you what you’re
crying about isn’t
your Thursday
appointment.
We’re afraid
of what we
may be living
in on Wednesday.
(originally published in Setu, Fall 2024)
My heart– a poem, a bass line audible
in Cleveland. You’re in the Heights now,
further away than ever, but it’s fine. I left
you first & felt a sapphire tinge in every
step. How always we wrapped
our bodies in caution tape
tangled in each other anyway.
I couldn’t drive a straight line,
couldn’t speak without stumbling
into potholes leapfrogging the walk
to your apartment on North High.
Inside, your dog was on a leash,
wagging his tail at a ghost
he could not know.
(originally published in Poetry Salzburg Review, Summer 2023)
When I can’t sleep– after
lifetimes pass me by
(embers of 16-bit reflections.
Silken stars, the spider
lights that moved between)
you refuse the lake
when the lake refused
you, but I find a stack
of outdoor towels,
and I can’t stop
using the phrase.
Can’t start a fire
without seeds blowing
over tall weeds into
mouths of rubber
band bullfrogs (among
ones with sounds a larynx
can’t replicate).
Tomorrow calls for
rain. No one said
you couldn’t leave
the pond until the
bugs did what they
do best: bug you
enough to drag you
out of the water,
your feet enough
in the grass
to walk tonight.
(originally published in Piker Press, Fall 2024)