At the foot of the staircase to the stars–
in the back of the line of actors drunken
from delusion (I’m going to make it),
each of us with hands full of hangers,
heads full of the fame
that glimpses a star, a familiar face,
how we chosen ones flicker
on living room screens
of friends and families–
a blip, a blur so brief
we were almost never there at all.
(originally published in The Piedmont Journal of Poetry and Fiction, Winter 2017)
Life imitates art in the way
memory imitates life– your face
reminds me of my last swollen
laughter held. Sometimes
there is no comparison– oh, we’ll rise
from geysers with sulphur still
in our fabrics– loose, blue threads
hanging at the maw.
We disassociate and wish
to converge into stars on a single strand
I remember that copper smell
of a new roll of pennies,
when fifty cents meant more than
being half of something
not quantifiable at all.
(originally published in Pouch, Issue #6)
Never touched her mouth.
Abandoned in the green room.
Leads me back to a twilight daze
when winding up the knowledge
would propel you into a frenzy
without ever touching lips.
I smoke her fingertip into
dark clouds and remember
the accumulating snow
which falls, now, as tiny ashes.
(originally published in Oatmeal Magazine – Issue #8, April 2015)