I sit in
the library staring at
high rise
construction. Corporate
buildings, silver, square
but tall– I want to tear
them down.
Right now. Build
someone shelter.
Then when the
CEOs offer palms
to my palms
with a blueprint–
slap!
(originally published in Raised Brow Press, Summer 2020)
to play a game is to simply look into a void I need
to limit the amount my eyes (or else the world’s
but a buttercream) I dream I dream in pixels
nostalgia of many Midgars transformed in what to partake
but all these riches of revolution memory is a waterfall
rushing headfirst cold into pointy rocks I wanted to forget this good
game with you knowing neither of us could afford the new
(originally published in Marias & Sampaguitas, Summer 2021)
it’s OVER
whelming
darkness
the creeping red
into the garden. the blossom
I align with the ocean
in its magnitude of idealism
I align with my self-
deprecating friends
my honest to
whatever god makes
them actually brings
them happiness I want
to live a little less
for my own interests
if I can help
you bring yourself
to light instead I
think you can call
the results
a little more
often, the god
of who we want
to be, the presidents
we are
(originally published in The Los Angeles Review of Los Angeles, Summer 2022)
Another rainy voting day– this time,
I crossed Main Street without looking.
I know traffic patterns enough
to know around noon there’s no one
out here, and so I walked into
the alley by Tina’s, the anti-social
route past people’s fenced backyards.
I met a hanging skeleton and
a wooden turkey two houses apart,
and when I walked downhill to
get to Woolsair a man in a Tahoe
pointed to the school’s side door.
In other years, there are people
lurking who want to tell me how
to vote, but this time, no signs,
nothing– just an empty gym, three
old men and my neighbor, Nolan,
who I didn’t know volunteered
here, told me there have been
just a few today, and thus as I
tapped my choices saying no
to oligarchical, corporate forces
as best I could, I temporarily
felt the weight of my fingers
multiply, that my choices would
count as thousandths not
millionths on the grand tv ticker
tonight– no. I know enough
to know that if it’s only me,
my vote will never matter.
(originally published in JONAH Magazine, Summer 2020)
The wave at the shore
was followed by blood
and flame. California singes
itself, Thousand Oaks
surrounded by smoke
clouds rising
into a blanket, smothering,
like the chorus
assembling on our streets–
the world is dying,
but first our friends
and neighbors,
how this bloodshed
has been on the fringe
of our existence until
it’s not, it’s everywhere–
down the road, polluting
our hope, it seemed
everyone
we knew cast a vote
to turn the world
blue
so how do we
drown the flames?
(originally published in Capsule Stories, Fall 2020)
Planes have stopped searching the sky for answers
as the crowd gathers into the terminal, fists up.
For once, we are made of metal– wings to give
the silenced flight. We mobilize on the ground
with footsteps of thunder, voices of titanium.
In rising, we promise to fly, scan the landscape
for green landings. Drop the ladders down,
worry about the pressure– not the altitude.
(originally published in Urtica Lit Blog, Summer 2019)
Some birds zigzag
below shrapnel clouds
and others, perched
on limbs, chatter
about migration
in this chill
because the leaves
in your yard
are a different shade
than your neighbor’s,
but each tree
casts its own
ballot into earth
and waits
for the season
to change.
Scrunching
all the dead
beneath your boots
along the way
to the church
with the cookies
and machines,
you pass big,
brick houses
with American flags
and jack-o-lanterns’
sunken smiles
on porch steps
and city workers
who have been
fixing power lines,
building structures,
patching roads
for so many months,
and so many months
to go.
(originally published in The Rising Phoenix Review, Fall 2017)
a duck waddling in your throat
before a thunderstorm
try to quack all you can
navigate through water
(your wings
do not function)
remain afloat you remember
your body floats (what’s the word)
go fast as you can
in this pond you call home
you duck
you slow duck
come home to algae
fish
geese
ripples
(originally published in The Pangolin Review, Summer 2018)
do you believe in demons
it is an election year
which means half the populace is terrified
more than they usually are
half of us believe you can cast hell on a ballot
without holding your breath
cloaked and mortared
to cast bombs into the future
always parachutes
forthcoming days that glide like saliva
we argue until our tongues hurt
and our minds are worn from fire
that we build organically
rubbing sticks together
and the whole nation burns
cold and lifeless
what America needs
is for fewer people
to preach what America needs
and to follow the strays
who wander the streets
to see where they go
(originally published in Black Elephant Lit)