if you could search through
your life you would
page upon white page
the deserts of texas
memory in a buggy
toting high school calculus
sleeping it off
the usual
what’s expected
(originally published in Winamop, Winter 2023)
Month: August 2024
Tommy Wiseau
What became apparent in the French Quarter–
what brought me there– wasn’t shattered glass
bottles on Bourbon Street, but that all actors
must at some point visit, then become so
wasted everyone laughs before fearing what
they might do next. Still, I drank the days
then sang Psycho Killer at a karaoke bar
so dehydrated I collapsed from back spasms
because I wasn’t enough myself,
and DJ Mud stopped the song when I fell
on the floor writhing. I told him to go
on and everyone howled as they
waited for me to stand on my own
and cheered when I did. Someone
bought me another drink
and I walked out through drunken
tourists and cops on horseback
into the middle of the street
near the end of a long road trip
that burned through my savings
to land me renting a room in a
house where each day I wake
still drifting and dreaming.
(originally published in Pomona Valley Review, Summer 2020)
Gaze Down Not Eyes
skies are gray my mind
lives having dug through
refrigerator for the cookie
I thought Mark bicycled
more instead I went to
salami town I burnt
a hot dog yesterday
for backyard freedom
the weeds are cut
behind the wire
and we are paranoid
of visitors someone
knocked on our door
time turned to trickle
last week a snowstorm
somehow but I have not
witnessed any weather
in a while I avoid outside
and outside avoids
me we always have
had an awkward
wave as we both
put our heads down
then move quickly
another direction
(originally published in Subnivean Magazine, Winter 2021)
I have been having nightmares of a police state,
of walking down the street at night, red
and blue sirens wailing past, and people
being shot in front of me, their bodies
dragged across the sidewalk
out of view.
Maybe because I’ve binged
The Handmaid’s Tale
or work too much (stress
the swan song we stay singing).
Whatever the cause,
I live
in America, America,
America.
(originally published in Good Cop / Bad Cop: An Anthology (FlowerSong Press), Summer 2021)
6 A.M. Route
Jogging in shorts at forty-four
degrees not the angle geometry
is the vice of bridges and edges
and bent knees but not me I am
alive for a little while until tires
deflate which could be a minute
or twenty-fifty depending on the
status of the singularity at my end
(originally published in talking about strawberries all the time, Fall 2020)
California Fires
the meteor
from within
the confines of
your neighborhood
charred remnants
your ghosts live
here
in the ashes
the smoky streets
a gasp of oxygen
thickening
(originally published in Fleas on the Dog, Summer 2020)
Deviled Eggs
My father despised even the word
Satan. Believed our house cursed
if ever I were to bring a Ouija board
home. And he preached the dangers
of using the word fool– an insult,
he said, from the mouth of Lucifer.
As a family, we went to the theater
to watch Titanic, but didn’t stay to
see the ship sink. We left soon after
previews due to the devil’s language.
What set him off was a god damn.
We weren’t even allowed deviled
eggs. I never ate one until I made
a batch in my twenties with an ex, but
the mess was too mustardy. Dirty
dishes on the counters of a cramped
kitchen. Today– this slushy Christmas
Eve– a friend drops a fresh batch
of demons on our porch, and I hold
the first egg in my hand, a chalice
almost holy, the swirl a flourish,
a handheld soft-serve mountain
top. I devour the lot– all six gifts–
without fearing the sin of gluttony.
(originally published in SPANK the CARP, Winter 2023)
Chasing Shadows
no end to entertainment tricks
of light when I lack sleep the world
is out to get me starlight in the rain
horn-nosed scythes in the shadows
lately I’ve felt the presence of twins
in our bathtub I swore they were
behind the curtains I could sense
the waiting knives
(originally published in Ginosko Literary Journal, Fall 2021)
Milgate Mornings
I spend these days walking
down the slope of an ice
rimmed hill. My hardcover
library books are overdue.
I want to mingle in a throb
of strangers again. No, I
recede, always, into self
importance, in static butter
flies, that near silent energy
buzzing from TV. Whatever
enters a room must be
semantics, a language for
longing I pry with my fingers.
Winter’s the season. Remnants
of lovers. Ice in morning light
refracting through isolated
windows. Not even my street
knows my name.
(originally published in Erothanatos, Summer 2021)
April 14, 2008
after inflatables
and Friday night I went to the House
after making fun of King
Kong with the brothers
Dance Marathon we first talked
then went to Pizza King with Dabs
accepted oxygen in my water as trees
dead napkins we returned to Constitution
played sober via HORSE
with bottle and recycle bin
earlier I helped Gary with the Poker Mixer
it was either the cheesy bread
or Gatorade that got me
we went to Walgreen’s for beef jerky
along the way we stopped at Sara’s for Orloff
at Fisher’s for refried beans
(originally published in Literary Forest, Fall 2022)