the spinning lights these strangers
disco couch crumbs heat and fizz
we are from a strange land, too
& everyone seems to ask what are you we
know what we are (breathing) into
mouth an ancient flame
acolytes of fire tamed by song
we could burn this house down
(originally published in BlazeVOX Journal, Spring 2023)
Tara, the arcade was not the answer
(air hockey shots & bowling) such
fantastical surrendering with hollow
hunger & the terrapin match /
between dinosaurs Maureen was
drunk & screaming. typical
punch bowl. red & strung
with lights I lied about my blue
ice I said I did not have enough
but I drove to Taco Bell next door
& ate five soft ones texted
you I made it (though I live somewhere
different now) home if I move
how will the wind know
the difference?
(originally published in DREICH, Fall 2023)
You know
how this goes.
I wrote of what
shames me.
You read them all,
we cried about it.
And the cats ran
into the kitchen,
hid in a cabinet
full of plastic bags
it took a while to coax them
out of.
(originally published in BOMBFIRE, Summer 2023)
at Grist House the day is everlasting
& we have just lived
through a pandemic.
August sun shining
I feel like an emperor
owning the day
til its end
the sandwich trucks
& hot dog carts
all of my life is good
we have just lived
through another
week under
shade of the
everlasting days.
in all my life
how many
days
will
I ever
get to feel like this?
a hundred?
maybe
in only eighty
years I need to
count
my inventory
(originally published in Statement Magazine, 2023)
Flowers, gravel, spit.
You leave a trail
of petals on asphalt.
Summer roads.
Icy roads. Salt
and brick. Path
of stone spokes
under breezy
trees. See how
the season
adjusts for you.
You keep going
sleet-stained
sweater avoiding
rains of
encouragement–
circular movement,
mechanized
static
a steel
handle
on the world.
(originally published in Scarlet Leaf Review, Spring 2021)
I walk on the bridge between your eyes
and stumble over branches on the railing.
The heavy lumber is thick with overgrowth.
Too many weeds spread onto the bark.
You’d cut your hands if not careful. But you are
so your hands are smooth during the burden of work.
You want to work. You want who touches your hand
to feel you have made something, to have been
a part of something, if not revolution. You are
a smoky rotor churning out how to be
forgiven. You are the steel in the sound,
the righteousness of summer. Windmills spin
in perpetuity– the chisel rests.
(originally published in Discretionary Love, Spring 2023)
dancing hip to hip loud
music between barriers we
set to bear how we have
nothing only bags of ice
only names holy in other
tongues & here unrevered
just the music of a name
o brothers I waited so
long to arrive but here
you were already.
(originally published in White Wall Review, Spring 2023)
I am no photon.
I am no electron.
I do not oscillate on a single point.
My atomic body has no own self,
its only sister the kitchen sink
who drops by
at random
or when washed with too much soap.
(originally published in Bond Street Review, Summer 2023)
This world you teach me is velvet
mice in your palm, on the carpet,
in my teeth, repeat. And the silver
crinkle ball that shines purple in sun
light that I cannot stop batting across
the floor. I sometimes push it into
that unreachable darkness underneath
the couch downstairs. DQ told me there
once was a cat who left and never
returned, and she thinks about him
constantly, expecting him each entrance
of outside light, and I tell her no, there’s only
me and you, and I run around the house,
seeking his faint traces. And she tells me of days–
long, unimaginable days– when no one is around
and you just have to bide your time and wait.
It seems so lonely. I run to her and
she screams and retreats into the Cavern of
Bags. I follow her in too deep. Please
tell me you will always be around.
I need someone here to complete
such important work, this
drive inside that bursts and blooms
its way across the corners
of these rooms I’m learning,
this love I newly navigate far
from small, stuffed cages
I used to think
was the world
until I met the space
within your affection,
a bond of greater
boundlessness.
(originally published in Unlikely Stories Mark V, Winter 2023)
after our red leash
became frantic
unsure of what grip
the wilderness had
or which eyeline
to focus on
oh aquamarine jewels
oh black-silk storks
name the artist
who decided traffic
was a logjam
in their brain
all you must do
(golden hour brown
on the frizz
of your hair)
is unclench
your fist
and follow
the leopard
(originally published in EAP: The Magazine, Fall 2023)