Don’t let what’s dead
linger.
Kiss the ground
before you rise.
Spill juice
into the river.
We have miles
to fly– the dream
carries us only
to the edge.
(originally published in Willows Wept Review, Winter 2021)
Month: September 2025
Continents
You say I love your face and I love yours
though it can be hard to know the blur,
the amber nights swished with vodka
tonic straw. I had the option to
leave, but you kept me here when I was
cold and afloat, warmed with handmade
bonfire. I drift across the vast Atlantic,
feel tectonic pull after all its pushing,
a broken chunk of earth adrift– don’t we
wait for the current to tell us where to go?
I’ve waited and waited through Pangaea
-esque ruptures I wanted to stop– but
still you kissed my cheek and said
forever we will be interconnected.
(originally published in The Post Grad Journal, Winter 2024)
Wedding (July 3, 2022)
gnats in my eyes
the eucalyptus celebration –
rose gardens
(originally published in Avant(Appalachia), Spring 2023)
Kermit on My Leg
If you are going to pass out
on my bed on my leg in the
middle of the afternoon, I
want to pass out, too, though
I’ve drank my coffee, been
unemployed for months, and
lived before then long in the
shadow of love, an animal
sheltered, content, hoping
for a small breath of light.
(originally published in DoubleSpeak Magazine, Spring 2023)
Canal Fulton
growing up
was a game
in Canal Fulton
because I didn’t know
I was growing up
and didn’t know
my shelter
from a world
of many better things
diversity is a white
term I hadn’t heard
in that suburb
by the manmade body
of water I spent
so much time
not contemplating
(originally published in Terror House Magazine, Summer 2019)
A Red Container
I am worried about the return
to normalcy the work of going
to work the work is what I am
doing what capitalists want
is your drive to drive x miles
with a red container of gas that
fuels us bright limitless stars
(originally published in Academy of the Heart and Mind, Spring 2023)
You Wanted to Fill My Room
you wanted
to fill
my room
with cute
junk
to remember
you forever
I will
it is february
a year now
fallen branches
green grass
the storm
I found
fitting
the wind
the roof
we chose to
not replace
with
broken
sticks
and dust
memories
a kindling
the house fills
with smoke
(originally published in BlazeVOX Journal, Spring 2023)
The Basement
As a kid, when my friends came
over, we would become stalagmites
on brown basement carpet, Nintendo
controllers in hand. Screen’s cold
glow our lamp in the cave. My dad,
one morning, stomped down
the stairs and yelled to play
outside. We sprinted into daylight
and blackened our palms
with a depressurized basketball.
We made the net’s swoosh sounds
with our mouths, shooting the ball
into a nearby branch, since the hoop
was erected not on pavement but
in the backyard. A dirty game of
grass and dirt. Later I learned
my Uncle Zane passed away that
morning, My father must have
felt so temporary and small,
and I wonder how long he was
in the kitchen, seething about
our wasted time.
When he ordered us to go upstairs
and outside, he was doing
the best he could to keep
us from being underground.
(originally published in Hello America Stereo Cassette, Winter 2022)
Décor
Our photos hang
on nails. Crucifixion.
Quiet, now, white
walls. I know
our distance
vast (Arizona’s
lizard days,
stretched).
The sand
in my eyes.
The wind.
Violent blindness–
everyone
cannot see past
this zoo.
Kill all
the animals before
God does.
I live to
love and you love
my diatribes.
Asinine
commitment, an
x-ray into
robbery. My
body. Your
house.
(originally published in Statement Magazine, Spring 2023)
Hamburglar
I’d do anything
for a cheeseburger
after a hangover
rob a bank of beef patties
to settle my beer belly
drive through suburbs
shooting holes
in the ozone
fingerguns pointed
in the ubiquitous direction
of hunger
my consumption
would satiate a hamlet
I drink
each excess
down
as Ronald
desires me to do
did you see the videos
pink slime resurrected
as hamburger Lazarus
but if I won the jackpot
I know a Big Mac
would be my first meal
golden arches
a chorus of mmms
echoing through cortex
processed organs
replacing orgasms
is that on the dollar menu
(originally published in HAD, Summer 2022)