holding a cigarette
until it flew into the mess
of a tree
smoke
like a white twig
I wandered
onto the crosswalk
without looking
the black sedan didn’t stop
(originally published in The Kolkata Arts Blog, Summer 2024)
birds
April 6, 2020
We rearranged the patio
though no one’s allowed
back. Silver chairs survived
the winter, now the virus.
The navy rug we slid on
brick, under long legs.
We hung string lights under
nostalgic blue, a horsefly
floating by. We put our porch
tables there in negative sun
when I said the new people
watching is through barbed
wire, through dead weeds
overlooking distant sidewalk
behind the abandoned printing
press and the parking lot
of Rite-Aid. There
I saw a congregation
shouting and prowling
abandoned concrete.
All I could picture
was ubiquitous spit–
how will the world
seem clean when
we are allowed
the world again?
Beaks of birds,
always lurking.
(originally published in Ginosko Literary Journal, Summer 2021)
The Bird an Echo
Above me, wing soundwaves visible, a flapping
back to easier days, a communal grass I could
not know I was missing, but did. Voices in my head
clamor for them, always, from windows in the bathroom,
the glowing lights’ buzz, this temporary body, not simply
the hands washed, nor the heart, the mouth, the tongue,
each breath, each thrill, each paper airplane landing on
its own brown rectangle of nothing.
(originally published in Unlikely Stories Mark V, Winter 2023)
Mechanics of Mundane Things
I have always questioned
the mechanics of mundane
things, such as how
the dishwasher works
or where pants land
in relation to where
I placed them initially
in the washer, but birds,
I never question
how they work. They
have wings and they
flap them, what’s
the problem?
(originally published in The Stray Branch, Fall 2023)
Early Twenties
At Giesen Haus late, we drink long
islands on empty stomachs until
we make nacho shots – chips loaded
with beans, jalapeños, cheese, the finisher
being the rest of our twenty-
two-ounce Doppelrocks. Because
the Haus is closing (we do not
know soon, for good), we
walk the blurred street to
The Basement, get another ale,
maybe two. We tweet Rob
Delaney when we decide we need
thirteen more drinks before the end.
We make another shot, the Dog Blowjob–
Raspberry, Blue Raspberry, Jameson–
IHOP at 2 AM, our waitress tells us a time
she was stuck in the snow, drunk, and a
customer paid her for sex. Cinnamon
pancakes, hash browns, we wait what feels
like forever amid endless summer now
that we are adults. 5 AM we walk back
to Giesen Haus and somehow, I drive us back
now. We cruise down Whipple to Bloom’s
hypnotic Wild, witnessing the sun attempt
to rise from the depths of night. In a few hours
I finish reading Conrad’s Heart of Darkness,
which I want to like, then watch birds
in branches with binoculars received
in the mail. I peer through all the nothingness
green. I start Siddhartha, play Skyrim, binge
Breaking Bad. Later in the week, I put in
thirty hours of restaurant work with
all the time in the world.
(originally published in Dreich Magazine, Summer 2020)
Spies
My paranoia speaks to me:
If you can’t tell me you bought
a nice shirt, what else are you
hiding? I walked outside
this morning to see crows
perched on power lines.
It’s the middle of winter
and this hemisphere is
supposed to be birdless.
And I read surveillance is
on the rise, that I should shine
my flashlight in the rooms
of AirBnBs and seek
a strange reflection.
But I can’t stop looking
at myself in the mirror.
I’m manufactured– hair
gelled, clothes pressed.
In the reflected light I
can’t find myself, just
a strange reflection.
(originally published in White Wall Review, Winter 2021)
Bird Boredom
The rapid flute of birds
is overdone–
flying through loops
of branches, etc.
Give me a
sculptured break,
e.g. snapped twigs,
seesawed oaks.
I look for a natural disorder
to split the monotony
of days watching
windows of walkers
to the tune of A/C’s
perpetual, tone-deaf baritone.
(originally published in Ink in Thirds, Winter 2019)
Ephemeral Garden
The map leads from bloom to wing
to sky– we followed gracefully before
black swan wings haunted our spines.
I was tangled in the garden of words
and you did not believe a thing
I said. I cowered in sagebrush
to study flying squirrels (the wingless
claim the sky). I told you I would never tell
another lie because what is truth
in an ephemeral garden, where the birdsong
of thrashers becomes language?
I attempt to look away from truth
but the truth is, nothing in this world
shocks me any more than when I crane my head
to see the nightmare we have become.
(originally published in Zany Zygote Review, Spring 2017)
Birdsongs
I mess with the piano
b-sharp c-flat
Jim says something
about same notes different octaves
I watch the motion
of his talking
tongue hoops
chewing O’s
monotone forward sound
to a blue jay
Jim talking
is a one-note piano
(originally published in Rat’s Ass Review, Spring 2017)
Pier
sandals stomp
over scattered skittles
& seagulls encircle us
the gathered tides
implore us to
pick a color
within these waves
reflecting
a million skies
parachutes will glide
us downward
to the sand
and blue rises
so slow
we never fully meet
(originally published in Eunoia Review, Fall 2016)