The American
disease: ills of
environmental overload
but these stings
are far more sophisticated
than thought
and soon we will
even overspend
on food all with a
residue at our plates
our heads will Ɵ∙∙∙ Ɵ∙∙ turn Ɵ∙∙∙
to the upcoming void Ɵ∙∙∙ our air Ɵ∙∙∙ Ɵ∙∙
(originally published in The Literary Heist, Winter 2021)
we feast at the counter
by the spotless sink
Wayne says his dip
consists of things
that wish to kill us
ranch cream cheese
and gouda
we’re like great
preferring this
to powerful people
who don’t know
us
yet wish
to kill us
(originally published in Train River, Fall 2020)
refractions on a shadow still the boom
mic lingers overhead / birthday candle
lit in the dough of Hofbrauhaus pretzel
white / purse of gold in a Fogo de Chau
group / illusions you with wealth / blue
yellow balloons framing the window at
Pitt dandelions beneath the barbed wire
public / I’ll be in Charleston alone / on
Thursday away from public / stairs tick
infestations / lift your pitcher-hands in
victory when faced with fall’s expanse
(originally published in Thin Air Online, Spring 2021)
I attempt to translate the goo in my brain into something both palatable and relatable
whilst contemplating my grim employment prospects. Zigzag, zigzag go the roads
in a city I never expected to inhabit. Pittsburgh’s hills are steep. I expect at a certain
acceleration at an erroneous angle my Ford Fiesta will slow-motion backflip and
scrape the top side metal against the gravel and I’ll drop to where I started. You
ever read Catch-22? I keep picturing the pointlessness of the flying. The missions,
day-to-day. Figure eights inside the clouds and never further. I can’t with supervisors.
Hierarchy, don’t tell me what to do. I will, though. Mop, drive, fetch, catch, good
little doggy. I can barely keep my tongue in mouth. Can barely control my saliva.
(originally published in On Loan From the Cosmos, Spring 2020)
I expect mountains! Unrealistically
my brain brims with possible
outcomes: you’re late for work
again in Aurora, Ohio, the passing
green whooshing around you–
all I fear is accident, the casual
mistake, the narrow passage
of time I waste still looking
in west’s general direction,
like I could cause a change
in the wind if I willed it, if
I asked God for a second
helping of mashed potatoes
at my mother’s lonely house
that sits in a dark gallery
at the edge of my– our–
relentless American street.
(originally published in monologging, 2022)
I guess a pandemic’s a time
to get wasted. I want to, too.
Badly. But crowds are universes
of a billion universes,
complex ecosystems in each
of us too small to see.
Most years I squeeze
into the tightest space
to buy the cheapest beer.
But Mom sells colognes
to the relentless public
at the mall, still pointlessly
open.
One of you knows someone
who knows someone
who wants to go out and
smell like sandalwood tonight.
And in the trillions of
tiny transactions we
do not know
happen each time
we step outside,
the actual virus
will make its way
into my mother’s
lungs. When
she– in her mid-
sixties– has to go
to the hospital,
but there’s no
availability
anywhere
anymore
to treat her,
I’m going to
remember what I saw:
you in a crowd at a bar
on your Instagram
stories. And I am
going to blame you.
(originally published in American Writers’ Review, Summer 2020)
I see the opening
can’t breathe
when placing down
the block–
one wrong move
and I’m living in my car again.
Cheaper rent. The simpler things–
brick house,
blue tuxedo–
were romantic once
but my mouth is full of blood, teeth
falling
out,
my stomach yellow-splotched
(but not from sun).
The rocks in my shoes,
holes in my
wallet,
ripped nets my lovers fall
through
(rely on me?
They know
I grind my teeth in sleep).
How summery it was to think I could
make the next job work, mountains
of manila folders
perpetually stacking, tumbling–
the dim light’s exit blocked
from collapse.
(originally published in Stickman Review, Fall 2020)
What simulation’s numb you ask
if I want children this time
definitive we boil Kraft mac
and cheese. I toss our meager sweet
potatoes in oil and ramble about financial
self-worth the oven nearly at four hundred
degrees. I can’t stop petting your shoulder
the ashy cat roams in the loam of our love
our newly swept hardwood the house
our home for now so limited already
steam from the inside a pressure
cooker of different timelines. What river
these converging lives to seek meaning
in the biological job postings some of us
are born to call. My dad was sixty-one
when I was born my grandfather clock
ticks nonexistent. We have gorged in all
our broken cabinets to rustle the blue
plastic grocery bag pile. I can’t stand
to live another day preoccupied.
(originally published in Flights, Summer 2021)
I can’t talk about money I have none
I am green in love in the black in life
the debt of my ancestors I am
someone’s deficient ancestor
though my family is dying
one at a time deeper
into ground and deeper into soil
the sound of my sister
sobbing though she can’t be here
at the funeral she would if
she could
there’s always next time
(originally published in Ariel Chart, Winter 2021)
If I live a modest life I won’t know what it means
when the pipes burst or the banks bust. Either means
money I don’t have. Meat the Earth has. I’ve wanted
to travel but I know airplane fuel results in polar bears
dying on dry soil. Think Coca-Cola commercials with
the Arctic night preternaturally night. No snow, no
snow, and after airtime you crave Coke.
(originally published in Quince Magazine, Fall 2020)