Meditation is mellifluous
melody ignoring the choo-
choo train inside my head,
but I have been growing
better, forth in time.
There are meadows
I will never enter – renter
of everything. Nothing I meet
in this life I keep. Honest. Lover
bearing forever strands
of hair? God, infinity is
so infinite when glimpsed.
Such the rose moon
grows on this
specific sky.
(originally published in Count Seeds With Me, Spring 2022)
Today, I slide on slush on my drive. Unplowed roads, slippery odometer–
morning snow surprise. Pittsburgh’s a city of hills unavoidable, and later,
waiting on a grocery pickup, I stare into the rearview mirror at the frost-
tipped pines when a knock on my window removes me from my existential
stupor. I don’t know how to interact anymore. Crank the window the wrong
way. Peppermint mocha, the years past. I bought a latte this morning but did
not know how to order it. The Dunkin teens stared, dumfounded, and it was
a foggy day like this– in which I float through the happenings– that I last
crashed my car. In Los Angeles, I flew down the dry 405, beat after
a long day in a Hollywood studio, and was amazed at the hospital light
brightness as I passed Westwood, like I could snap my fingers and time
would once again resume, while five other lanes of traffic zigged around
me with no regard to my existence. I was like a visitor to myself dragged
back into being with silent smoke pouring out the mouth of my Ford’s
hood. The front was crumpled but the SUV I slammed into appeared
untouched. The sixteen-year-old girl called her dad to ask what to do.
She took my insurance, my number, then drove off with the rest of the
world, as I stood at the side of the highway waiting for someone to
help me go home, still, to this day.
(originally published in the chapbook Count Seeds With Me (Ethel Zine & Micro-Press), Spring 2022)
Ripples of water
extend into days
we are wordless
with each other.
A storm breaks,
a dog whimpers.
We hear the groaning
Earth shifting
over countless hours
into the endless sea.
I’ve had enough
of windows,
where dreams
are a quick glance
over another
unfinished drink
in the middle
of the day.
(originally published in Count Seeds With Me, Spring 2022)
this is no end
nor beginning
I climb into the clock
and hairs of time still
wend from its beating
wings until purpose
finds me this is just
another way to kill time
(originally published in Ginosko Literary Journal, Fall 2021)
After Mikko Harvey
I don’t
want you
to be
scared. Maybe
thinking of
a cat
would help.
Have you
seen
the video of
the one
waddling into
the ocean
to be with
her friend?
She swims
onto his
head
and they stay
afloat.
When they’re done,
she beelines
through sand
to the towel
he set up
on the
beach,
and he pours
sun-warmed
water to
heat her up
before he rubs
her down.
Sometimes we
have to remember
the world before.
We don’t know
what’s going
to happen.
Kingsford and DQ
are especially
tender
at a time
like this.
What
are we
supposed
to do?
Not pet
them?
Right now,
DQ is snoring
on the blue
blanket of
the futon
without
a worry.
Our first
three years
have been
that soft.
I hope
this passes
soon.
Until then
we will squeeze
each other–
holding
our cats
close, all of
us afloat.
(originally published in Pendemic, Spring 2020)
I stay stone, rigid,
a bronze trombone.
I live another year,
eyeing a future
no further than
tomorrow’s muddy
sunrise.
(originally published in Black Moon Magazine, Spring 2021)
Sirens all day, every day.
And steady rain
out the window. I won’t
go out there. I’ll sit
in this gray room
with twin computer
lights. Some days
it’s either fog
or an ominous cloud.
Today it is both.
(originally published in Pangolin Review, Spring 2020)