and I am on fire too ready
to burn Panera down
no one really wants this hospital
food its chemicals inside
that make it breathe the bread
is moving if you watch
close enough its heartbeat
in your mouth we are all on
fire this former dead living
animal a baguette string inside
my intestines there are wings
in my salad flapping dead cells
floating and all I can do is be
the sun and burn the whole world
then flush my throat with water
(originally published in Madness Muse Press, Fall 2020)
a sea of cars
parting people drive
home I am a delivery
man feeding fish and wine they
snap their fingers I arrive
in the flesh who else
would they wait for?
(originally published in Cirrus Poetry Review, Fall 2019)
Delivering packages–
I see names, not
always faces, but you,
I know your name
too well, your face in my
mind a ceaseless rain.
I knock on your door–
your dog barks,
wags his tail
when he sees me
through the window. I do
not stay for a signature.
I walk briskly
to my van and drive
to my next ping,
somewhere deep in
the city, another box
with a stranger’s name
on a different, faceless porch.
(originally published in Uppagus, Spring 2021)
lost last night’s gold after the Adriatico’s pizza
guy gave us a tip: wait
for me to leave
strummed strings past afternoon stairs
mozzarella between our teeth hands on hips
lips and tongue
I was your favorite human for one night out of a billion
you said and said kept me a dice roll away my bedroom just
a flick of your fingers
(originally published in 8 Poems, Fall 2019)
Sitting across the small table in the company of bagel
art and clanking dishes transported from trash to the back,
she asks no questions about what I’d bring to this table,
just asks about my experiences working with The New
York Times and making ends meet in studios by the sea
in southern California, how different that life was,
how, starting Friday, I’ll make a good delivery driver
(originally published in The Literary Nest, Spring 2019)
voila! magic! mcnuggets
at the front door a knock-
knock and bag grab
now alone at the edge
of the long kitchen table
the a/c roars on lukewarm
meat between my teeth
*
voila! magic! blood struggles through
breathing’s become an hourglass
my girlfriend says her dad had a heart
attack at thirty then gave up meat
I press a button the heater burns on
(originally published in Hamline Lit Link, Winter 2019)