I don’t have a new perspective.
Snow thaws on sidewalk beside
uncollected garbage. Half the city
workers are in quarantine yet
there are boxes to be shipped
for Christmas or our mothers’
birthdays. I drove on dew
streets to buy you bagels–
but stopped at the sight of
a long line to retreat into
the O of your arms in my
mind. Please park
your car next to mine.
We will sit in our usual
distance and wait for spring.
(originally published in Dodging the Rain, Winter 2021)
I am imperfect and so
are the rose notes my Yamaha
sings. Plunking plonks
into the righteous air
to no one: I
play an ode
to myself
in his fumbled
slinky-staircase
song. I
need
a place
to make
mistakes
when the audience
plugs in
to my heart.
(originally published in Flights, Summer 2023)
Friday night patio party.
Drinks with the server crew.
The Exterminator untangles
cords behind the stereo,
a glowing green-eyed demon,
excited to unleash
a swarm of houseflies
into our ears.
(originally published in eGoPHobia, Summer 2021)
Mom is from the Philippines;
she has been American
forty years. Made a habit of white
rice and chicken. So I was never
vegetarian. Home of meats
and starch– broth for breakfast.
She never taught me traditional
dishes; I only ate
what was given. Can’t speak
Tagalog– last I heard,
she’s trilingual and I am
thirty years old, eating French toast–
bread in cream in butter. Plus sugar.
I must be American.
(originally published in Madness Muse Press, Fall 2020)
Waking up early makes me important.
Now I must find something important
to say. The less I write the more that flows
when I sit down. No audience.
Always myself. Often, I find a line
on the wall and trace its path to the end.
A spider ambled across my desk last week
and like my cat I still expect it there.
The other day a centipede sprinted
into my pile of laundry on carpet
and I just haven’t worn clothes since.
Sometimes it’s better to wear no legs
when the alternative is too many.
(originally published in Studio One, Spring 2021)
I’m trying to tell you
I’m trying
my petals’ attempt
at opening
an articulate tongue
the phylum anthophyta
glass breaking in the sun
I am Late Jurassic
early Cretaceous
it’s true I don’t belong
here among your desiccated peonies
I plead bee telepathy
antennae
someone read
my mind
before the era ends
before I swallow
pyrethroids
over ensuing millennia I can’t promise
I will adapt
(originally published in Ginosko Literary Journal, Fall 2021)
bowl-shaped city I just wanna smoke
come hurricane season
look now Mom I’m gone
inside all the jazz I never listened to.
I’m gonna stay home and hear the blues
because I had a light notion in my brain.
I’m standing in different spots in this room
to see where my shadow is grander.
Over in the corner I blend into darkness.
By the window I just look outside at the wire
fence and dream of living in New Orleans.
(originally published in Flights Journal, Summer 2021)
I want more– god,
our nights on the patio
are memory’s reruns.
I want it back: you,
your hand secretly
caressing my chest
beside the dead firepit.
Everything. You asked
to craft me a drink
with Firefly whiskey.
You made it strong
& asked if I could
withstand this. No–
I’m weak. Each kiss
that night, your lips
sudden, brief– through
the crowd we looked
for each other, making
a game of running
around the kitchen island
to never catch the other,
but how close we were
to giving our all. This
close to telling you
I never could get over
you. But here’s
a chance to start.
(originally published in EgoPHobia, Summer 2021)
Wherever I walk is without
consequence. Skid Row,
alleyways, abandoned
lots of Walmarts. I was a kid
just wandering.
Believing I was in
the Mark Strand
poem. I thought
the absence of field
was wherever
I occupied.
I’ve learned
this is not true.
The absence
of field is everywhere.
But my way of
living
is not the world.
(originally published in Perceptions Magazine, Spring 2022)
of I-don’t-regret-this
and for now my crown is
in my mouth. my temporary
house from bricks
heavy hands worn
from endless insistence
of perfectionism
in a mirrorless era
of self self self self self
upon which I am guilty
indulging in that grease
(originally published in Winamop, Winter 2020)