The endless universe of this coffee-church
I blend into the ground, ground
anxiety into yours, I met you there, pit-
pattering footsteps I couldn’t stop
listening to. I asked myself
if this was a joke
the way only nervous nothing I said
to you. Yah-yah-yah.
I am awake, I know
over this river I
Jesus-walk miraculously
you reach your hand
to me–
cold, wet illness.
Neither of us are
here.
(originally published in Academy of the Heart and Mind, Winter 2021)
in the midst of split
caffeine
tremors & vertigo
earth I
plopped
into sinkhole
a heap of turtle
shell floor tiles
you reached
for my hand
inside
was a walnut
butter brownie
(originally published in Erothanatos, Summer 2021)
Again, a rainbow sprouting from your violin–
no, it’s no light. You never wanted to mother.
Music was the way– adagios hanging from
the clouds. But God had something in store–
come on.
What happened was we were drinking herbal tea
and you told me of new pregnancy within these
silent walls of our favorite coffee shop and I said
I’m sorry, I’m sorry because I didn’t know what
else to. And you said it’s okay, it wasn’t you, just
I had to tell someone. Because you no longer
write symphonies. The instrument collects dust in
your closet– where’s the music? We ask. You
answer: inside, swelling. If there’s one thing
you must hear, she will be a cadenza.
(originally published in Chiron Review, Fall 2020)
Dog through the window– charcoal snow
and peanut-speckle brushstrokes– I watch you
served by our server on the patio under
Azorean’s white umbrella. If only I could be
of service to a creature so brown-eyed and sacred.
I want to be good, too, and melt the heart of people
I encounter. But I am out of it– I still feel new here
and spend my workweeks isolated and curious
for the world I miss around me, its strangers
a wild pack wandering the streets, searching
for any scent that spells joy. How mine smells of cinnamon
blocked by endless windows overlooking a sea of blue
recycling trucks inside a sharp metal fence, and– even now–
I peer through glass, smelting, as our server rubs your head,
as passers-by smile as they go wherever they must go.
I want to be unleashed, too– to put both knees on
concrete, pet the fur between your ears, and
inhale, together, Saturday’s shared freedom.
(originally published in Hello America, Fall 2019)
in the coffee shop
you tuck a bundle
of lavender
into the v
of your shirt,
aim it at your nose
then type furious
emails to co-workers
gently
gently
(originally published in Crack the Spine, Fall 2018)
through speakers 70s music bass
guitar heartbeat pulsating through
a weatherman chants forecasts out
of sync a microwave beeps the shrill
coffee machines trembling cash
register slamming baritone voice
barista says he has bad hearing you
said something before sandwich fan
spins no rhythm stringed spurt richochet
solos quiet everyone reading books
tablets not responding to chaos burnt
bagel wafting sorry sorry the window
rain begins drum drum drum drum
one two three four the faucet spits
on everyone walks in don’t you
want somebody to love?
(originally published in IthacaLit, Spring 2018)
the baristas grind bones into coffee
in these cafes I call skeleton closets
this golden-brown-haired babe stands by my table
her laced leggings draw desire with a fine ballpoint pen
her head whips to me from some psychic seventh sense
she is my ex-girlfriend’s brother’s future ex
her eyes descend as B-movie UFOs
attraction vacuums neatly into a plastic bag
she sits with me like a pocketed thunderstorm
galvanized on The Great Wall of Chain-Link
you must believe me she says
there are no hard feelings
a poacher must say the same
beside a rhino’s castrated face
she asks if I come here often
I say I come hard everyday
just the flickering moon will summon the wolf
and we emulate its growls in fluorescent light
time is our species’ one enduring invention
a new carcass will not survive the night
so hold on to your corpse for as long as you can
until we mourn with our friends the forgetting
(originally published in The Broken Plate, Spring 2016)
in the future i’d be watching you smoke
cigarettes
waving your smoke away
with cleaver hands
breakfast would come
we’d slice cucumbers in the wet-
snake leather kitchen
rectangular blade neatly fit
sink-soaked
the yolk in the sandwich a little drippy
warm & familiar
the electric stampede of spiders’ feet
never did the future weave
faint spiderweb strands
(originally published in Sobotka Literary Magazine – Issue #3)