bubblegum, bean
or J for jelly bean
and the first letter
of your name
your bent elbow
your bent knee
upside
down
interpretations. the morning
of early language
the balloon is red
your eyes black
the sky red
your eyes white
the sky white
your eyes red
black drape of night
white rainbow
white sun
everything between
the margins of the
mental spiritual
physical colorful
hangs in
the balance
(originally published in Vamp Cat Magazine, Winter 2019)
Sara dances to a Zumba video on her laptop
at the kitchen table I eat chocolate chip cookies
the dog gets too close the moment she kicks air
he walks to a window to study his reflection I inhale
as Sara does the dog stares back exhales my reflection
consuming me but soon my body how my feet are bare
on coffin wood and Sara throws punches while dough
collapses in my fingers before I move grease to mouth
yes yes YES alongside the workout instructor to techno
beats a pitch of butter sugar flour down my gullet
I have accomplished an entire row from the baking pan
Sara says that’s enough but she means her water break
many minutes into sweat an eternity away from ending
she says her stomach hurts and I get it, mine too
(originally published in Indiana Voice Journal, Winter 2018)
11PM and the street is bleak
in this unseasonably cool May
these parking lots are vast
national parks of the suburbs
their Joshua tree streetlights
ubiquitous luminescence
a steady stream of street cars
these wild intractable headlamp
eyes they know where they’re going
that’s what makes it sad everywhere
McDonald’s flags waving half-mast
(originally published in The Tau, Summer 2018)
walk winter
nights
and float she
may one day love
you ice
& gilded wing
a starling’s
distant song
for snow
she knows
means slipping
(originally published in Whistling Shade, Autumn 2018)
too cozy walking autumn sunshine
creepy crawlie park time dusk
windy waving weeping nights
moonlit musk and tone
misty writing personalities
hard ego ergo wiring
impatient dollars dining doling
drinks to wine’s slow timbre
crowds working loud writing
sheets of many selves
(originally published in Neologism Poetry Journal, Winter 2018)
the diet
I sneak
Wendy
into my
bedroom
after our
sugar-beers
the bouquet
in my house
grows sickly
(originally published in The Squawk Back, Fall 2017)
So, so many projects to complete
before the deadline, Taurus!
How is your pressure? Blood?
Tire? Determination will drive you
to your office parking lot, and there,
in circles, you’ll run out of gas.
(originally published in Califragile, Fall 2017)
If you drive a car whose
combustion confuses fuel
for air, the engine will quiver
along smooth concrete.
At certain speeds, a clanking
rotor is similar
to the natural cadence
of heartbeats in embrace:
amplitude becomes a deafening
in the stillness of night.
Let a rotating machine of mass
be mounted on a stiff spring
to fix support. The pieces
must move vertically in
a single degree of freedom
even if the rotor is unbalanced,
its hypnotic center missing
one valve’s intake,
forgetting the other’s exhaust.
(originally published in Lakeview International Journal of Literature and Arts, Summer 2017)
I don’t believe a word you say. The stairs
separate us because you’re on another
level. Gravity is what pulls us together.
& absence of death. You talk in spirals.
I want to follow. A wind-up rotor wheels
his way back. Intransient movement.
I believe in higher planes
when looking to the sky in airports.
(originally published in The Stray Branch, Spring 2018)
I cracked my phone screen
on my first date without you.
I carried it in my back pocket, like always,
though maybe I postured myself differently,
finally sitting up straight enough
to carry my own weight.
I didn’t look at my phone
until after the date. By then,
I could no longer remember you
without the shattered glass–
the flawless screen was not made
from our blazing beach days
of black seaweed and slithering kites
that begged the wind to let go,
where footsteps parted sand
to lead the tide into ourselves,
to let the moon drag our bodies
into the ocean’s boundless mirrors
where, enveloped in reflections,
we could only gasp for air.
(originally published in Metonym, Fall 2017)