We would shake hands in public but embrace
in private the kitchen counters I’d pour myself
a purple punch. Slung ear ice. Not much music
from the grass but songbirds chatter refrigerator
hum. My speedometer reached a hundred barren
roads leading to summer rooms. Fingerprints
everywhere. We touched everything tortillas
knobs ladles. We even touched each other’s
faces, then inhaled.
(originally published in Ginosko Literary Journal, 2021)
right now the animal sits on a paper leaf
bells in the other room
and a TV remote’s button-presses amplified thousandfold
sometimes heartbeats in the walls
tell me: is that faucet water or white noise machine
plastic bags on plastic bags on
you bring me a handful of cat toenails in your palm
(originally published in Marias & Sampaguitas, Summer 2021)
I counted twelve hundred drops of rain
to cull the drought in the desert
but at some indeterminate future
coordinate. There isn’t even a crowd
to be lost in anymore– human bodies
dissipate into pixels on a stuttering
screen. Listen to her voice. Listen
to his voice. What we are drinking
when we speak is a potent purple
cocktail: dragonfruit, chia,
pineapple, banana, ginger,
vodka, rum. I know you
are close when you made it
but the rain’s still far away.
(originally published in San Antonio Review, Fall 2020)
Today I am a dangling thread in the unnecessary count
of all Allegheny’s clothes. Snug fit in a snake’s mouth,
today of all days I choose to live obliquely, first day
of fall, et cetera. My brain’s all leaves, caves all ears,
moths seeking better light I have not provided. You
ask how my day is going and I get defensive. Never
wielded boxing gloves. Never a ring. I am surviving,
I say, the minimum. My form conjures shadows.
Drop me a rope. I must climb out from this well.
(originally published in Academy of the Heart and Mind, Winter 2021)
we are sitting closer
to the television in a brand
new bedroom not
that we bought a new
house rather rearranged
everything the television
Playstation mini
tables dustballs morals
we never labeled
outside obvious
corners the air
conditioning vents in the faraway
summer I hope never
comes yes I am this
amount jaded the new colorful
reflections of the TV
beside its fresh horizon
almost like the screen’s
outside where I can finally live
my real life in pixelated terms
I know I know I am
conflicted about even
the architectural oxygen the wood
was inspected man just not
by me I mean girders in the semi
shallow underground been
scrubbing raw potato skins
only still to grok the boiled
intentions steaming the
mind’s kitchen I don’t got
knives I don’t got any
memory of the chicken
carrot stew just I often
feel infinitesimal I can’t
stop filling overfilling
the pot hot water simply
abundance very thankful
for plastic bags stuffed
in the cold seam of the
world our window
won’t open
(originally published in datura, Summer 2021)
Spring’s to bring the beacon.
This year, just pollen
after dead leaves.
(Crust of another burnt
baking pan). Look
how inside you are.
Time rolls down
the verdant hills
we left behind.
The empty storefronts–
now the scene of a tripod
positioned to catch a dance
party of one. Backdrop
of dark, grimy windows.
Still, the sky stays blue.
No molecule of spikes
replicating itself endlessly
above. Just the days.
All the days
become the one
before – a billion more.
(originally published in Marias & Sampaguitas, Summer 2021)
Another gray sky day, empty gas tank worries in the countryside
nowhere don’t you long for my touch? Oz runs just far enough
for the bone against the backdrop of my outstretched arm
hand out fingers extended & I don’t know where I stand with Jessie
except she must find me pathetic as she walks into water under the
influence of Dr. Dog & now she swim-dances the past three days she’s
walked along the rock edge of the pool. & now I need to text Tony Z.
what’s a man most afraid of? I’m getting used to inadequacy. Oz brings
his bone to the other side of the fence. Jessie says she misses the green,
the pool purified at the beginning. Sara throws pong ball through
the hole of a lime lifesaver floatie and a butterfly metaphor soars
above the water. Have you ever almost drowned on drugs? I don’t
recommend it. The lesson is gravity’s not the occasionally falling apple
but the drifting leaf toward the other side, whatever the definition. September
third and we just got our first sunburns. Hannah leaves the house after
work and like a magic trick, three pong balls appear in the water
and the sun reveals itself a moment. Oz lays in the grass in front
of me before a philosophical discussion about casserole and how to cope
with beans bought at the beginning of pandemic we will never eat.
(originally published in KNOT Magazine, Fall 2021)
In the morning light that surprised in all the surrounding
darkness of the era I am only hungry for the world to change
its tune from Virus Major to Canis Minor like back when all
the sad dogs sought regular companionship through the day.
Though home is where the heart is (TJ MAXX propaganda)
the heart is home far too often, staring to the sky in need of
a long embrace from ever-shifting clouds that spread thinner
and thinner by the wings of blackbirds gloriously racing
through the whiteblue plane.
(originally published in Pendemic, Spring 2020)
It’s daunting, the path
leading out
to the world.
My car’s been
out of use
for weeks
and rusts
on the street.
I’d prefer simpler
times:
chalk ghosts
on concrete–
now, don’t
come so close.
(originally published in Pendemic, Spring 2020)
all this balance nothing to show for it
seesaw the most patient of virtues–
patience
get up god damn it
when you fall can you please get the fuck up
lemons fire from cannons
zest on my back
& I am always running
can’t say the words right in my head
but in the glitch of No Music just levers clicking
& motherfuckers shouting woo! in the sorry
white
sky
(originally published in TRIBES, Fall 2021)