grape stem the fruit centipede
parched time
a skin between my teeth
fingernails tapping on blue porcelain bowl
then the controller my hand’s touched everything in this place
thanks for your spider fingers on the soft of my chest
lips purple with last night’s wine
new year burst with pessimism not
optimism beginnings are overrated
I do best when I don’t know where I’m going
(originally published in A Thin Slice of Anxiety, Winter 2023)
I want more– god,
our nights on the patio
are memory’s reruns.
I want it back: you,
your hand secretly
caressing my chest
beside the dead firepit.
Everything. You asked
to craft me a drink
with Firefly whiskey.
You made it strong
& asked if I could
withstand this. No–
I’m weak. Each kiss
that night, your lips
sudden, brief– through
the crowd we looked
for each other, making
a game of running
around the kitchen island
to never catch the other,
but how close we were
to giving our all. This
close to telling you
I never could get over
you. But here’s
a chance to start.
(originally published in EgoPHobia, 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)
10:33 AM on July 4th
& if that ain’t some
gunslinging fortune
my drinks have teeth
can’t mix with coffee
I am trying to stay awake
I am trying to stay
a firework of politically conscious
colors
most mornings the soup of ritual
I gnaw at the aluminum’s tab
when my beer has ended
I am not satisfied
no
I am not satisfied
with this ending
(originally published in Datura, Fall 2019)
your drunken bed / the absinthe
& worm / I waited / in the candle
-light for dead lovers / two apartments
ago / downtown / how the spirits
summoned / lingering
lust / cigarette smoke
living / rooms stained
sweatshirts / rugburn turtle
couches / bleeding
fabric / and sex
(originally published in streetcake, Summer 2019)
is what we call grapefruit juice club soda
and vodka. Also the name of a wolf and
cost-efficient bus. There is where you told
me stop drinking. But it gives me fangs,
these gnarly sharps I say I need, let me keep–
tires spin in the mud, my bedroom where I
drink alone. There’s a delay. Of course.
It’s 6 PM. It’s 4 AM. Half-crescent awake
drink through morning again. Stringshaped
street I’m twirling aloof. I know there’s
been some kind of mistake. This dim
lobby with icy hands. Who knows. The sun
might go away. Your call. You called my name
at the last stop– I wanted to be wheeled some-
where south of here warm all the time. Where
I can shave all my fur and sweep back up.
Lounge by the beach my tongue of drool hot
midwinter. Past the equator. Don’t you see
those yellow lines you’re swerving over…
underneath my shirt is another shirt I want
to remove. I’m running out of fumes. Soon
you will wait for me in the corner-forest
where it’s okay to talk to the passenger
next to you. I promise. You’ll talk
a head clean off and refuel.
(originally published in Thin Air Online, Summer 2018)
I really want to drink today.
The sun is shining. It’s warmer than usual.
I should try to ween myself off, right? None of this cold
turkey shit.
I haven’t drank a drink this year, the miracle
of it. Today, I am alone.
I scrubbed white the kitchen tiles, but there are
always dirt stains, smudges when you look
a little harder.
Sanitized the kitchen table with towels,
swept its crumbs from the floor.
The cat sprints from one end of the room
to the other over
and over, imaginary laps.
What every day is, these days,
running a relay race, handing
the baton to tomorrow’s me
with the trust I won’t– today,
it’s a sleep’s worth heavier than yesterday.
Long minutes the placemarks I pass
I can’t make time go faster. It is my day
off work, and in its nothingness I trudge
through sludge. Old habit,
you don’t die hard because
you’re not dying. You’re
as alive as me: refreshed yet craving,
gazing through the window to the light-
stained street, the shadows cast from trees
out toward the river.
(originally published in Stickman Review, Spring 2018)
For the last hot day of April, we were the bristled paintbrush
stroke of an old fluttering-in-wind canvas
flag of a few years ago when all of us were inseparable,
every event a small celebration. We’re a little older,
a little more tired when each sip of boxed wine
means waking with a sharper razor in the sun.
(originally published in Central American Literary Review, Spring 2018)
& she celebrates among the drunken dead at the Horseshoe
how ball-missiles fly through air and land cradled in young idols’ arms
I remember this,
fear of missing out– no: just missing
fumbling
no want to pull winter hat over my ears
I drink spiked cider reminding me the summer river
no breathing fire into my palms into
the frigid heart of Columbus. No,
I am waiting for the pedestrians to pass my house. Mostly decked in red, some
in opposing green, almost like Christmas, but without–
family knows the apples I douse in vodka.
family knows my unwell.
family knows my eye toward the wind I find too cold
& blow against
been awhile since Kylie & I were breathing the same air
& I’ve got a kind of sixth sense for it
(I see dead people)
but not in a ghost way more like everyone I pass has ghosted
(the phantom passes in public)
& it’s true we both head home for the Christian holidays.
Xmas, xgiving.
Cars passing the same routes
to different destinations.
Desolate highway.
Kylie’s down the street & I’m drowning here
making a scene
her silhouette at the surface joyous
but occupied
(originally published in Qwerty, Spring 2018)
I need to break the association
this first day over forty in January
sun wicking everything orange
and melting snow which had mountained
around Columbus this past year’s been
climbing an unending goal since I gave up
drinking through a Lent that lasts forever
I stopped believing in God early on
and instead chose to believe in sacrifice
first my health now my vice the nights
when I lose myself in another religion
in rapid ascent up blackout mountain
waiting for the harness to snap
(originally published in Edison Literary Review, 2018)