Last night, I dreamt I stood
on a tall stack of books, gathered
with others around a roof
like we were at a dinner party.
When I glanced down– finally,
from the top of my tenuous skyscraper,
I had to brace my shoe against
the house to keep myself
from falling back into reality,
but I did anyway, repeating
to the guests anxiety,
anxiety, anxiety.
I used to dream I’d get so high,
anything was possible. I entered a tower,
beelined to the elevator, and pushed
the button to the top. Sometimes
the platform was already ascending.
Sometimes the whole structure was.
When the doors (if they existed) parted,
the view from the sky was so rich,
I had to be dreaming. Deep tree greens.
Eternal ocean blue. I returned
to this view often, but stopped
near the end of my twenties. I was
itinerant at the time, my life
still an open road ahead
of me. A million meanings yet
to interpret. Not yet bogged by
a steady job but not quite steadied,
living off the promises of strangers
and the engine of my Ford Fiesta,
emitting exhaust into the atmosphere,
accumulating.
(originally published in Artvilla, Winter 2024)
ford
Shoppers
At Westside Pavilion, I watch shoppers
walk slowly to their Jubilees, carrying plastic
bags of silk and thread to the thrum of Monday.
I shop enough inside my hungry flesh, living
in my Ford, booking tiny television gigs to
replace my shoes. Sometimes, I am able to
watch myself in the lens of a softer society–
playing voyeur to my temporary belonging.
(originally published in Communicators League, Fall 2021)
Colorado Hammock
we used to be musical soul
mates indie hipsters I guess
we got older I know we don’t
call Denver home in the thunder
storm under the oak by the nursing
facility it seemed good to call I
didn’t I lied to Andrew about
asking his mom to stay with her
he asked if I asked and I told him
I knew a place if he reads this
he won’t remember even now it
feels dreamed up like on a dark
Saturday evening in the feathery
backseat hammock of my Fiesta
(originally published in The Racket, Fall 2022)
Outside a Ralphs in San Diego
At the shore of supermarket
I wake under a white blanket
in my Ford’s backseat.
People pass, transient within
their own transactions, conquering
mundane daily fortresses.
I exist outside a system
of bees, exiled from Los Angeles.
Sunshine seeking amber
sunshine– its sweet, temporary
glow, my being unknown.
(originally published in Scapegoat Review, Winter 2022)
city-data.com
In my living-in-my-car days I wandered the country wild
and thought often of my mom, slipping anew on the verge
in waking nightmares: silhouette with angled knife at
my car window. Never peace, even in sleep, though I
was lucky, had a roof, silver shining. A Ford Fiesta
occupied. I’ve had a house broken into but I wasn’t there
so it never felt like it actually happened, and the thief
took nothing I could remember missing except the mirage
of having control. But living in my car I knew separation
only by windows, fragile and claustrophobic. I slept in the
backseat and thought that would give me an extra second, if
needed. Sleeping in Walmart parking lots I hoped to be
able to see my mother again and I lied on the phone,
verbally lowering crime rates for cities I slept in.
(originally published in Ghost City Review, Spring 2020)
Float Through
Today, I slide on slush on my drive. Unplowed roads, slippery odometer–
morning snow surprise. Pittsburgh’s a city of hills unavoidable, and later,
waiting on a grocery pickup, I stare into the rearview mirror at the frost-
tipped pines when a knock on my window removes me from my existential
stupor. I don’t know how to interact anymore. Crank the window the wrong
way. Peppermint mocha, the years past. I bought a latte this morning but did
not know how to order it. The Dunkin teens stared, dumfounded, and it was
a foggy day like this– in which I float through the happenings– that I last
crashed my car. In Los Angeles, I flew down the dry 405, beat after
a long day in a Hollywood studio, and was amazed at the hospital light
brightness as I passed Westwood, like I could snap my fingers and time
would once again resume, while five other lanes of traffic zigged around
me with no regard to my existence. I was like a visitor to myself dragged
back into being with silent smoke pouring out the mouth of my Ford’s
hood. The front was crumpled but the SUV I slammed into appeared
untouched. The sixteen-year-old girl called her dad to ask what to do.
She took my insurance, my number, then drove off with the rest of the
world, as I stood at the side of the highway waiting for someone to
help me go home, still, to this day.
(originally published in the chapbook Count Seeds With Me (Ethel Zine & Micro-Press), Spring 2022)
Excited for Something (After Depression)
must be the upcoming road
trip to Portland, to return
briskly in love with
someone
I haven’t seen
in years
and work on my state
in
her living room
where lamps float
sails on a lake room
(originally published in Setu, Summer 2020)
After a Date at the Culver Hotel Bar
you ask where we should
go and I say drive me
to my car so you
drive me to my car
because I tell you that’s
where I live and of course
you wouldn’t follow
up on this my Ford
Fiesta still smells
sweaty even though
I rent a home now
a compact is too
small to fit what
we’d have to
live with
(originally published in Nauseated Drive, Winter 2022)
Ramen in Japantown
I had been eating like shit living
in my car, fingernails full of fungus.
We agreed to meet in Japantown
to enjoy a fancy ramen
but this would be my first
in many years
that wasn’t Maruchan
(cheap crinkly plastic,
cancer-flavored beef-dust
in a sawtooth packet)
& you must be aware the body
struggles to digest it.
During our meal,
two years since
we last talked,
the cheap ramen must have
intermingled in my stomach
with the pork-broth
real deal. I put an egg
on top for authenticity
when you told me you had
just bought Coachella tickets
for yourself & your brother
& I didn’t want to know the
price because I was living
on wages made on the days
I was lucky enough to
find work. Umami
lingered on my tongue
as we ruminated
in silence over
how vast the distance
our lives traveled
in different directions.
(originally published in Triggerfish Critical Review, Winter 2020)
Inland
Bluebird floating
blue across the redlands–
when did I become
isolated? You said
I had a home
to sleep, I just had
to ask but
I would never– except
I did the night we shot
arrows across your
driveway, my quivering
aim missed the tree
and nearly pierced
a squirrel’s eye–
(originally published in The Wayward Sword, Summer 2018)