my father once mowed a rabbit into the lawn–
perfection leaves corpses
the tractor drones loud radio static
I never want to be someone
who compares pop music
to a limping tornado
autumn’s kaleidoscope leaves
the crumpled xylophone
black bags the scattered records
a taut-needled march to old age
I say these things now
but Eugene Delacroix said it best:
he was like a man owning a piece of ground
in which, unknown to himself, a treasure lay buried
music of the ether
of shifting chatter
fang-laughs from the teenage zeitgeist
when else has our unity
hinged on the city’s mustard smell
whether it’s there
or there isn’t
vapidity is DNA’s rapt curse
relinquishing joyrides for dimes
is our chosen profession
I prefer cremation to cream
and commitment to half & half
ambulances shriek when people talk
I never hear the atmosphere’s shrill
nor slow warmth of glaciers
in the spring of mottled souls
what is that frozen world?
we should unearth its hardened treasures
(originally published in Jokes Review, Summer 2017)
My father often mourned
the mortality of grass. I never
want to grow accustomed to the mower’s
tornado roar then limp drawl
that crumples summer’s green
into bent xylophone. I wonder
every morning why I’m there, or here,
and never sure where I ever
relinquish my shed skin for dust
blowing out into the wellspring of time.
(originally published in The Original Van Gogh’s Ear Anthology, Summer 2017)
After Band of Horses
After my sister’s morning call broke
our father’s death, the first thing
I did was listen to Everything All the Time,
sobbing into unrequited guitar
and an ethereal voice soaring
into some great beyond. Seven years later,
I drink Bordeaux with my roommate
in the kitchen, cyclical tones
filling the room. The guitar is a coffin
for us both, lowering Dad’s corpse
into dirt. Her grandpa died
when this song released.
We rake our past leaves under burnt-out bulbs.
We agree: The Funeral was written for both of us
to pass the billion-each-insignificant day.
Dead leaves own the lawn each season
of our funerals. The same deaths
in autumn chill still dropping the needle
into memory’s vinyl– to come up only
to pull us under, show us wrong.
(originally published in Chronogram, Spring 2017)
Today’s a bit of a special day for me: my first poetry chapbook, ‘The Frayed Edge of Memory’ (Writing Knights Press) has released and is now available for purchase! It’s 44 pages and only $8 for a physical copy. Really excited for you to read it! Thank you so much for your support.
Two sample poems that are in the book: ‘Gate C55’ and ‘Short Return to Los Angeles’
I always knew my father was allergic to bees
but it wasn’t until his obituary
I learned he was once a beekeeper.
In those days, I hear, he prayed
to his veil– only to re-emerge, hours later,
having danced with God
under every umber swarm.
He was a gifted storyteller
but it wasn’t until his stroke
at seventy-four made me listen,
when his mouth betrayed his brain.
In his final years he would repeat,
the end of bees is the end of man.
So, heaven in the soft petals
scattered in the grass.
Young violets lined his coffin.
All I wanted was to listen
to stories he told before,
details I had forgotten.
Around the cemetery,
bees still glissando
through gardens not unlike the ones
he dug into his blackened fingernails–
honey and sweat, story-
pollinated requiems, harmonies
heard in bountiful
fields of bloodroot.
(originally published in Kaaterskill Basin Literary Journal – Spring 2016)
*Nominated for the Best of the Net Anthology
Whenever I let the dog out
onto our small back patio
on sunny afternoons
and he lays on familiar brick
scratching his ears,
nose curious and wandering,
I remember my father
who, in the endless days of retirement,
learned the lawn better
than his calloused palms:
every humpbacked tree and drooping limb,
every snake and gopher hole,
every new and fallen anthill,
every cobweb on the lamppost,
where to find toads after rain,
how to catch them–
when he did not strive to create utopia
by chiseling trees into magazine models,
I often found him on a patch
of freshly-mown grass,
scratching his smoky, sun-basked beard,
waiting for the wind to speak,
to say more to him than I ever did.
(originally published in Black Elephant Lit, Spring 2016)
I don’t think my dad would be proud of me
writing poems on bar napkins
after that fifth happy hour whiskey.
This is how I want it: to be disengaged
by the time my uniform cuffs roll
to my eyes in stupor to avoid the
solemn eyes of ancestors in the sky.
Transparent Mufasas and steely voices
judge me like America judges Kardashians.
The reality is you can rewind the DV tape
back to the beginning tomorrow and show me
the footage of my stumbling into the driver’s seat.
The cosmos roll in their graves.
Meanwhile I am the last child
who can cast the line onward–
past, present, future.
A syzygy from birth.
The headlights wane.
(originally published in Jawline Review, Spring 2016)
Thirty-five years and fingernails
darken, blacken from walnuts
and the cracks of hammers, the coming
of dawn, clouds wrapped in thunder–
the fruiting spire, the pear-toned
light, the front lawn fire, charcoal
grass, green peels ripening– ripe–
red Helix stagnant, lonesome, remembering
the wet-leather thunderstorm days
the human box of organs and history
holding rubber handles
treaded like hieroglyphics–
interpret me. Listen.
These are the words on the bathroom stall
fingernail-scratched and ignored
What Will You Remember?
Not the stories told in tones softer than television
(originally published in NEAT., Issue 7)