At the shore of supermarket
I wake under a white blanket
in my Ford’s backseat.
People pass, transient within
their own transactions, conquering
mundane daily fortresses.
I exist outside a system
of bees, exiled from Los Angeles.
Sunshine seeking amber
sunshine– its sweet, temporary
glow, my being unknown.
(originally published in Scapegoat Review, Winter 2022)
When you see me on screen–
with blue jacket and plastic
glasses– listening to Zach
Woods brainstorm a plan
to pivot Pied Piper into
an app that can attract
rodents– like the fairy tale,
you’d think this guy on TV
is one lucky bastard.
But you probably didn’t
notice, because you don’t
know me, and you see hundreds
of people on screen
living the dream every day.
And you can see me in season
two and the first episode
of the show, ever–
the very first scene,
during the Kid Rock
concert– on stage with a
hundred other extras, and–
at the time, I had
just moved to Los Angeles,
and the background roles
I had been cast for
resulted in me
on a projector!
My friends at home
who got used to me
no longer being able
to meet them drunk
at Highland Tavern on
Mondays were now not
completely surprised
to see me rewindable
in their living rooms.
I felt destined for great
things, marked this only
the beginning, like
everyone else chasing
dreams in the city of angels.
But all I could afford to eat
were packets of beef
ramen, boxes of blue
Kraft mac and cheese
with water instead
of milk– no butter.
Hard-boiled eggs
kept me alive
long enough
to come home
to show friends
who were getting used
to me being able to
meet them drunk at
Highland Tavern on
Mondays my favorite clip–
with blue jacket
and plastic glasses,
I listen to Zach Woods
brainstorm a plan
to pivot Pied Piper
into an app that can
attract rodents–
like the fairy tale.
(originally published in Statement Magazine, Spring 2023)
I was new to this
kind of longing
sticky all my fingers
on red fingernail cups
but I was a visitor I was a loner
I lived in my car
a couch was a luxury
four cats purred and clawed
at me I couldn’t sink anything
into the drinks. I sank
but made myths I missed
everyone in Akron everything
that happens to you
sticks to you. swish
there was a way to
live in all places at once.
Pittsburgh Columbus Akron
Los Angeles. my memories
are mine and they are selfish. I cling
to what I forget which is what
I drink away which is all
the spills over all the years
I haven’t yet wiped clean.
(originally published in The Seventh Quarry, Summer 2023)
California, 2014, in her brother’s
bed, we could have went home
but didn’t.
Instead, we cuddled and slept
in only underwear.
I woke up alone
to find her on the couch.
We nuzzled our faces before
finally walking into the sun–
already dripping wax,
feeding desert flowers
in its best attempt
to stave the rain.
(originally published in Euphemism, Fall 2021)
the road to dream is knotted
tangled never broken
early mornings Santa Clarita
studio beneath setting moon
we talked bright futures
in film reel and photograph
just two in a crowd afraid
of its own shadows of
stepping out into the light
and not being recognized
yes we have gone our
separate ways love
and heartbreak heartbreak
and love cardinal singing
an evening song to lull us
back to valley open full
with ink quill and camera
and old dreams to dream of
(originally published in Agony Opera, Summer 2021)
We wait in the endless line on principle–
backpacks full of familiar belonging,
dreaming to get away. This past decade:
a years-long playback on one of those
stereos everyone wanted. A CD requiem
that spun, skipped, shook–
and is now obsolete.
(originally published in Winamop, Winter 2023)
Tune-lover, beachcomber sculpting
seashells from stones to listen for ripples (nothing
loaded but time) and I have written– haven’t I–
distance into oblivion (that tidal bass a metaphor,
its vastness deepening) & am I not a shell of was
once, was gripping to any mast to lose
the sea, change quivering– I swear– every molecule
of my being, I must (from the must) of any old
ceiling, the dust it lends to fading carpets,
the ones we walked and walk on today
(originally published in The Broken City, Summer 2021)
between us, only
a centimeter wide.
Didn’t used to be
there, this space.
We lay leglocked
in bed miles apart
now, this fissure.
In California, they talk
about the next big one
around the corner,
perpetually, and
before I moved
I had nightmares
of tsunamis consuming
the coast and then my bed
and woke up drenched
alone in darkness wondering
if my next one was around
the next year’s bend–
a lover to drown
beside, mouths lapping
seawater, tender word debris
we’d strain to hear or otherwise
imagine.
(originally published in The Seventh Quarry, Summer 2023)
the meteor
from within
the confines of
your neighborhood
charred remnants
your ghosts live
here
in the ashes
the smoky streets
a gasp of oxygen
thickening
(originally published in Fleas on the Dog, Summer 2020)
Wherever I walk is without
consequence. Skid Row,
alleyways, abandoned
lots of Walmarts. I was a kid
just wandering.
Believing I was in
the Mark Strand
poem. I thought
the absence of field
was wherever
I occupied.
I’ve learned
this is not true.
The absence
of field is everywhere.
But my way of
living
is not the world.
(originally published in Perceptions Magazine, Spring 2022)