what is funny about time its weight has
summer to look forward to I am stuck
in spring my watch says autumn the past
not with me may all prayers be with you
I genuflect my bucket list I never want to sky
dive I never want to die yet what handiwork
that built and builds the house this bird has
whose hours were mine I would never claim
(originally published in Bruiser Mag, Spring 2023)
I know nothing
about you anymore.
Can’t remember conversations.
Sometimes you are a leaf
blowing past the yard of memory,
a whisper likening
myself to wind.
(originally published in Subterranean Blue Poetry, Fall 2020)
When you see me on screen–
with blue jacket and plastic
glasses– listening to Zach
Woods brainstorm a plan
to pivot Pied Piper into
an app that can attract
rodents– like the fairy tale,
you’d think this guy on TV
is one lucky bastard.
But you probably didn’t
notice, because you don’t
know me, and you see hundreds
of people on screen
living the dream every day.
And you can see me in season
two and the first episode
of the show, ever–
the very first scene,
during the Kid Rock
concert– on stage with a
hundred other extras, and–
at the time, I had
just moved to Los Angeles,
and the background roles
I had been cast for
resulted in me
on a projector!
My friends at home
who got used to me
no longer being able
to meet them drunk
at Highland Tavern on
Mondays were now not
completely surprised
to see me rewindable
in their living rooms.
I felt destined for great
things, marked this only
the beginning, like
everyone else chasing
dreams in the city of angels.
But all I could afford to eat
were packets of beef
ramen, boxes of blue
Kraft mac and cheese
with water instead
of milk– no butter.
Hard-boiled eggs
kept me alive
long enough
to come home
to show friends
who were getting used
to me being able to
meet them drunk at
Highland Tavern on
Mondays my favorite clip–
with blue jacket
and plastic glasses,
I listen to Zach Woods
brainstorm a plan
to pivot Pied Piper
into an app that can
attract rodents–
like the fairy tale.
(originally published in Statement Magazine, Spring 2023)
If we are sap-
stuck together, two
pines intertwined
in gentle branches,
it is inside
our forest
I want to be
directionless:
our trajectory
up the hill.
Up.
(originally published in *82 Review, Fall 2022)
on back porch with pounding
rain puddles amass you ask
advice an offer a hornet
nest in the gutter we invite
friends over my memory
short my throat closed to
organ tunes in harmony
answers inside aluminum
you hand me your phone
say look another malady
the dirt clogged drain
for pests to fester in
(originally published in Taj Mahal Review, Winter 2022)
I know the risks when I make the journey–
after running through shadows beneath dark
desk, I must evade the heavy stomping
of giants who do not see me and black
wheels that zag back and forth on
the bottom of a bony leather rolling
chair. And if I can get past that,
there’s the barren carpet desert,
a field of dust kicking up exhaust
to sneeze. I huff and puff past junk
I’m told is poison yet I always want
to eat– crumbs from a swan
sandwich, push pins, script meat.
And at the edge of the expanse I am
out of breath with miles to go–
a table ten towers tall to run under.
I close my eyes and sprint until
the window by where you sit
and I tap you on the shoe.
After you call my name
I say that’s me! then
your palms become a
cradle lifting me to lap
where the world is warm
honey sunshine.
After hours and hours
to rest and recover–
you glide me over
towers, the dust field,
the rolling chair, the stomping
shoes, the shadows, like these
obstacles were nothing when
you place me back in my blanket.
For you, bringing me home
is the easiest thing in the world.
(originally published in Backchannels Journal, Spring 2023)
On the job I steal time already
stolen from me. Taxidermied
deer on beige walls. Nature
in a protein bar. Yes,
I am consuming. No,
I am no consumer.
I push hard
but age miserably
among antlers
while day flees
into night flops
into the far future.
My family will
want bouquets
but you’ll know
what to do.
(originally published in Academy of the Heart and Mind, Spring 2023)
I shuffle through memory for
a single midnight. What did we do
at school? Redeem gold tokens
at Swings ‘N’ Things? Cleveland led
me to lake by leash. We listened to Feist
among lilacs and buttercups. We lived
near the airport, never flew. I shouldn’t
keep money for unusable transactions. What
a concept, after the drinking started. If darkness
is inevitable, please invite me to your party.
(originally published in Dear Reader, Summer 2021)
How wriggly, how slippery
these beaches of men– like sand
between your toes, in your toenails–
they washed up in the storm to take
up space wherever they can, however.
(originally published in Euphemism, Fall 2021)
grape stem the fruit centipede
parched time
a skin between my teeth
fingernails tapping on blue porcelain bowl
then the controller my hand’s touched everything in this place
thanks for your spider fingers on the soft of my chest
lips purple with last night’s wine
new year burst with pessimism not
optimism beginnings are overrated
I do best when I don’t know where I’m going
(originally published in A Thin Slice of Anxiety, Winter 2023)