We can work on puzzles all day,
watch the patterns move
from one color to the other.
Block colors twist in gradients
until blending into something else.
The sun removes itself
from the scene, shifts
behind a cloud,
creates a change in light,
a block of bricks on a building
slightly darker than the rest.
(originally published in SOFT CARTEL, 2018)
another night of insomnia
the crickets never sleep
endlessly yapping on &
on about the planes & trains
& flightless birds who wander
fields endlessly & there
is an island where
that’s all that happens
it’s 5 A.M.
& this bed is an island
(originally published in The Sunlight Press, 2018)
it’s a series of bills all this money money money
allegedly turning void in wallet into all this good
shield or beating heart or net but I’m getting your
gray hairs you pick in the mirror how they seem
to crawl from the bathroom floor & appear as the
plague on my head O corporation & government
gavel held to my sensitive nodes I sniff envelopes
which smell of corpses that may all be my own
(originally published in EgoPHobia, Winter 2018)
I don’t know anyone
but the gnats swarming
around me &
the stranger
next to me calls them
wedding bugs
marriage begins with wings
then seeks blood
sucking glimpse of sweat
on skin sugar all the single
guests swat at the air
around them familiar
the way we complain
of heat so beg
for rain to form in
these shrouds of clouds
to cool us down
it’s nice to have something
tangible to wish for
(originally published in Razor Literary Magazine, Spring 2018)
& she celebrates among the drunken dead at the Horseshoe
how ball-missiles fly through air and land cradled in young idols’ arms
I remember this,
fear of missing out– no: just missing
fumbling
no want to pull winter hat over my ears
I drink spiked cider reminding me the summer river
no breathing fire into my palms into
the frigid heart of Columbus. No,
I am waiting for the pedestrians to pass my house. Mostly decked in red, some
in opposing green, almost like Christmas, but without–
family knows the apples I douse in vodka.
family knows my unwell.
family knows my eye toward the wind I find too cold
& blow against
been awhile since Kylie & I were breathing the same air
& I’ve got a kind of sixth sense for it
(I see dead people)
but not in a ghost way more like everyone I pass has ghosted
(the phantom passes in public)
& it’s true we both head home for the Christian holidays.
Xmas, xgiving.
Cars passing the same routes
to different destinations.
Desolate highway.
Kylie’s down the street & I’m drowning here
making a scene
her silhouette at the surface joyous
but occupied
(originally published in Qwerty, Spring 2018)
Which is to say we kissed many strangers
today, so many mouths without knowing.
Both of us date someone else now, though
lock eyes through pinholes of cheap latex,
despite the guises’ vacant stares– these two,
skeletons. Admire the wrinkles of bendable
skull-skin. Remember our bones– last summer,
our bodies thin crackers. Could snap first sink
of snow but we survived last winter, the fall
of our alcoholism, nearly a year passed,
still fighting. I miss the bricked patios
of our Old North bars, sloshing ice cubes
around until disappearing into fog.
Only now, with new identities,
do we walk through the door.
(originally published in Midway Journal, Spring 2018; Nominated for Best of the Net)
the bleeding radio repeats the same
dead guitars their necks and bodies
another day strings stretch rained
bullets for old fingers to play half-
mast country white and blue so red
throats the shallow soundless holes
peered into to sing sand to bury
the chorus of another city’s silent
prayers God never intends to act
(originally published in #theslideshow, Winter 2018)
I keep saying
when I start drinking again,
there are gonna be ground rules–
the main one being I can’t be
a fucking asshole–
and these include
nothing hard & nothing sweet.
& only beers, a few.
But I need to be honest
with myself right now.
(Originally published in Poetry Super Highway, Winter 2018)
You can watch movies
for nine hours straight
and not see anything as poetic
as the walnut tree in your yard
decapitated by storm winds
I’m saying that’s the problem
(originally published in Penumbra Art and Literary Journal, Spring 2018)