You said you’d be here hours ago,
weeks ago, months ago– last year,
we were late to the Crew game
then screamed nonsense to the crowd.
And then you told me you’d be back
and I waited, tethered to pole, while
the game ended and you were nowhere.
The bottles of mixed vodka we hid inside
the base of a lamppost was, miraculously,
still there at the end. But I changed
cities then came back to the light
shattered in the breath of a rubber band
slung outward toward infinity, the dash
of time not slowing any past collisions.
(originally published in G*Mob, Spring 2022)
columbus
Doo-Dah
july 4th horses
means I’m drunk
again riding
the whirlwind
of my American
personality
I wave the
flag of surrender
every day
but here I
see stars
in the blur
of the city
parade
(originally published in Hamline Lit Link, Summer 2020)
Hard to Think Around the Thing
I don’t want details.
To paint the scene is
the scene. I am trying
hard to think around
the thing. To forget the figure
and face. But it was late
October, your phone was booming
This is Halloween– and my
bed was on the floor
then. And the baby
blue walls before
the High Street crowd,
everyone in masks–
with the scissors. You cut
the hole in my pants.
Because I was in
silky green. I was
alien alive in the
wrong place,
wrong time.
There was the gold stage
behind us. By garbage
can makeouts. Groping
hands reached into
the city’s cheap costume.
And there was chill
in the wind except
when everyone
was bunched into
each other. If we
couldn’t stay warm
we’d have to go
inside. No one
wanted the street.
But we didn’t
want inside.
(originally published in Ink Pantry, Winter 2022)
do you know these streets
I do I deaden them walking
I talk them alive in the spit
of my thoughts specks of
gravel in my brown leather
Clarks not made for distance
I say to a neighbor hello
and that’s it before I leave
for another neighborhood
Friendship park you can
move in loops and loops
around the brownish green
in view of hospital whose
restroom I use no one cares
what I do everyone is sick
I don’t care I am too my legs
burn with lethargy though
there are days I want to yell
at dogs who do nothing
wrong I want the freedom
to lick sandpaper barks
of trees and keep a butterfly
between my teeth until
something inside me says
feast or let go
(originally published in Northwest Indiana Literary Journal, Spring 2020)
Cursed, Not Cursed
Whichever– we were followed
by a love, chanting mantras
in the dark beneath each doll,
each horsehead. And to say there
was a countdown– I masked my own
face. Then fate bugsprayed the spirits
that wanted to haunt our hearts
in this crickety home forever.
(originally published in In Parentheses, Spring 2020)
Saying Hello at Kafe Kerouac
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)
Room Filled With Music
the winged violin soaring through air
all petal & leaf & major key this song
will fit somewhere why not with us
swallow it will fill the body your heart
the pulsating bass in our bedroom
jockeying deep cuts our eardrums
rhythmically rimmed as in whispering
to the other falling asleep is how good
your resounding warmth
(originally published in Cavalcade of Stars, Summer 2020)
ferns in memoriam
ferns in memoriam
in the room of you
the four walls the plaster so what
we would have had a life
together not just be alive
together
so what
I’ve learned to lose the leaves
the old days
reminisce in new nostalgia
created from a new & better era
my body alcohol’s punching bag
but the nights! no straight-edge
James nerdy
yes but one that
lets me lets me lets me
grieve in the light
(originally published in In Parentheses, Spring 2020)
You Leave to Make Art in the South
humid
green
swamps
a riverflow
of talent
the sediment
of the world
gone well
past
my flaws
I wish
still for contact
this accident of
longing a lesson
in how not to be alone
through the lens
of canvas
(originally published in Erothanatos, Spring 2020)
End of June [Transition]
last night I slept in your bed
white sheets disheveled
I plucked an orange scrunchie
off your pillow and placed it
on the dresser
drawers half-open
like an uneven staircase
dresses streaming out
onto the floor
like contrails
frozen
mid-destination
(originally published in In Parentheses, Spring 2020)