Catcall / Catastrophe

So you made a carrot soufflé–
no one cares about the mush

orange and earthy you made
in the oven. That shit is under

control. Look instead at Joshua
trees burning down the desert

runway. That’s a catwalk. A
catcall to the Earth from

your rolled-down pickup
truck window. See

how hot they are? It’s
like those cruel videos

where the cat’s caretaker
places a cucumber

behind the off-guard animal,
and people laugh

as the creature flees in
surprise terror.

These videos were big
for a summer. This

slideshow of tiny
cruelties– it’s harder

to find new spaces
to hide.

(originally published in G*MOB, Spring 2022)

Before Coronavirus

We would shake hands in public but embrace
in private the kitchen counters I’d pour myself

a purple punch. Slung ear ice. Not much music
from the grass but songbirds chatter refrigerator

hum. My speedometer reached a hundred barren
roads leading to summer rooms. Fingerprints

everywhere. We touched everything tortillas
knobs ladles. We even touched each other’s

faces, then inhaled.

(originally published in Ginosko Literary Journal, 2021)

Buzz Burn

glass of prop champagne could
be a three thousand dollar shot

I can’t pay these costs the
moving parts all I want

is to buy you liquor an
André for us to drink

such fine and cheap champagne
in front of the camera I turn

to improv heroes and beg to
break the bottle I am stuck inside

of work yet warm in winter when
the bottle breaks I always crave

(originally published in Ink Pantry, Spring 2020)

Kodak

camera closed and open in a
quick capture one moment
standing ghastly in your drive
awaiting your fishnet in the
next my buzzing body propels
out into the canyon of distance
how immortal I can be in end
-less dreaming I brim alive
in the sense that life brims
with bacteria I thrive off the
gunk each new love brings

(originally published in Nauseated Drive, Winter 2022)

Kusama

Opening blinds in the morning–
infinity mirrors. Sunlight off passing
cars a recollection, each yesterday
our mirrored era. To become
so ubiquitous in the freckling
of city streets, the raindrops
forever dotting concrete–
momentous the window
I each day enter, the full
world a symphony of
repeating balloons.

(originally published in Trouvaille Review, Fall 2020)