I keep saying
when I start drinking again,
there are gonna be ground rules–
the main one being I can’t be
a fucking asshole–
and these include
nothing hard & nothing sweet.
& only beers, a few.
But I need to be honest
with myself right now.
(Originally published in Poetry Super Highway, Winter 2018)
on your way from Los Angeles
to New York, I’ll tell you
there’s nothing to do here but drink
can you see our friendship
gripping skeleton bottles?
before we stumbled into every hazy bubble
of unfilled expectations
we called L.A. city by its name
then other cities called our names
like somewhere in this world
(originally published in Red Fez, Winter 2017)
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)