each time a glass is raised to mouth & drank
each time it’s clear water’s the last to go take
a river under forever dry ground a waterfall
bounding from nothing the sky is ocean
we drink it falling filling another cup
to restore us where to place this treasure
& we live we break the faucet
(originally published in WordCity Lit, Spring 2023)
maybe it is not seeing-eye dogs training
in the grass I pass or the street vendors
selling sunglasses tamales and watercolors
or the waves that touch a difficult nerve
which snap me into a more relaxed reality
or the toaster-oven croissant at the French
bakery on Ocean Avenue but the cranes
that lift off skyscrapers in the heavy wind
that make me want to punch real estate
developers in the jaw or somesuch non
sensical violence bear trap tourist trap
somewhat Floridaesque my happy life
on blast it is dynamite at a luxury
construction site this weekend
(originally published in Artvilla, Spring 2023)
In your dream I fuck
your sister; in the morning
you say I don’t love you.
Because we showed
a broken mirror to the world
and hate the jagged edges
of the trees. The barren
branches.
Sun-sharp bottle shards
glistening atop one bridge
in a city of a hundred bridges.
(originally published in The Los Angeles Review of Los Angeles, Summer 2020)
God, understood here as a necessary being,
exists in my filthy shoe. The impossibility
of nonexistence shows good weather is
vague. Sunshine during workdays, storms on
weekends make me want a world of reverse
gravity. My filthy shoes, then, muck
the clean white clouds of heaven.
(originally published in A Thin Slice of Anxiety, Winter 2023)
I know
I know
if I can understand you I am an asshole
but I want you to do well
I want you to write in the sun
barefoot on brick with birds humming from their bones
what is a comma
but a fucking shadow scythe
who cares
if the number eight
is spelled 8
or synonymous with infinity?
you know more than I do
this I know of all of you
(originally published in Penmen Review, Summer 2022)
On a towel eating Lays
at the shore of Lake Erie’s
ocean-simulation but I just want
to piss in sand
singing memories of Los Angeles.
Sorry, the masses I abandoned.
What song of salt on tongue.
What rustic swampland.
Nothing
about the tide I claim
to understand. Water’s not even
clear. Only unexplainable shifts
of the heart coming
and coming at me relentlessly
like I never settled when it mattered.
Now I prefer deepwoods drugs.
Life’s a slow death
and I just need to get to the end.
(go)
What else do you want / what else
do you want / what else do you want? To do?
go
go
go
go
go
(originally published in Spotlong Review, Winter 2023)
The recipe I research online
calls for Mountain Dew
(or Mello Yello, if one prefers)
and I’m curious if it becomes
a lemon tea with a reservoir
of sugar in it. What happens
to the bubbles? Do they turn
into a slime? I buy a liter
from IGA, ignite the oven to
a torrid Fahrenheit, hotter than
my usual showers that set off
the second-floor smoke alarm.
Grease and flour in the Bundt
pan, fluted and grooved and
eternally circular– my partner
wonders if I have the expertise
to do this, and I read her the
recipe, which she says is not
typical– the carbonation nor
instant pudding it calls for,
the boxed cake mix plucked
from a million others at the store.
But in a large bowl I combine
everything: the oil, the powder,
the eggs, one at a time, and stir
in the lemon-lime soda.
It has a texture like roof tar
when I tell her I don’t even
enjoy Bundt cake, I just wanted
to do something productive with
my day after being laid off.
She helps me pour the sludge
and bake until I insert a toothpick
into the center. We let it cool.
(originally published in Sybil Journal, Summer 2023)
I am reading old journals, putting
pieces of my past in place–
a series of staircase Tetris shapes,
a broken board mixing L.A. palm
fronds with bad haircuts Dad
gave me, but we needed to save
money, and I was bratty. I wanted
video game anime hair but got slanted
bangs laughed at by classmates and
teachers (who would never admit they
found it funny). I knew, and still do.
Sharp laughter edged in memory. I
want to say I’ve gotten over it. Over
all of it. But I still hold the smoky
gray of Nintendo controller in both
hands, and I am trying to move the pieces
where they need to go– but I am
older and life is faster, blocks falling
into places I can no longer find them,
stacking dark spaces to the top of my
screen after these earlier, easier years.
(originally published in Bond Street Review, Winter 2021)
I have a deep exhaustion
when an animal puts his head
on my lap I fall
ask anyone and they will say the weekend
is gone too fast
you sleep through your dreams
the train whistles
the beating heart
of your partner next to you
asleep through the lost time you share
(originally published in Pirene’s Fountain, Summer 2024)
I often dream of simpler times–
driving my car to a customer
with a bag full of food, and poof–
gone. Then the memory fades
in an instant. All of time
passing. Right now. Into the ether.
The clock has dropped its weary
hand a tick downward.
The other hand desperately
reaches toward the sun.
(originally published in Academy of the Heart and Mind, Spring 2023)