I talk about the moon
as if it’s cute but IT’S NOT
cuter than anything
sometimes I think I’m
cuter than the moon but
I’M NOT
(originally published in The Literary Yard, Spring 2020)
I talk about the moon
as if it’s cute but IT’S NOT
cuter than anything
sometimes I think I’m
cuter than the moon but
I’M NOT
(originally published in The Literary Yard, Spring 2020)
Sara dances to a Zumba video on her laptop
at the kitchen table I eat chocolate chip cookies
the dog gets too close the moment she kicks air
he walks to a window to study his reflection I inhale
as Sara does the dog stares back exhales my reflection
consuming me but soon my body how my feet are bare
on coffin wood and Sara throws punches while dough
collapses in my fingers before I move grease to mouth
yes yes YES alongside the workout instructor to techno
beats a pitch of butter sugar flour down my gullet
I have accomplished an entire row from the baking pan
Sara says that’s enough but she means her water break
many minutes into sweat an eternity away from ending
she says her stomach hurts and I get it, mine too
(originally published in Indiana Voice Journal, Winter 2018)
The rapid flute of birds
is overdone–
flying through loops
of branches, etc.
Give me a
sculptured break,
e.g. snapped twigs,
seesawed oaks.
I look for a natural disorder
to split the monotony
of days watching
windows of walkers
to the tune of A/C’s
perpetual, tone-deaf baritone.
(originally published in Ink in Thirds, Winter 2019)
Expect your love life
to take a dramatic turn
for the better, Taurus.
Consider power steering:
without it, those daunting
curves down the Pacific Coast
can lead to rock wall
or fence or ocean.
When you drove to Philadelphia
without power steering
for the Black Swan premiere,
you didn’t trust your friends
to steer your Taurus. When
you sold it, the red-faced
salesman strained a sweat
steering it mere meters
into wide-open lot.
He asked how do you drive
this dangerous piece of shit?
You answered I am more self-
confident than I have been
in a long time. Today, you
charged down the staircase
wearing a pink polo your
romantic partner said she
wanted to punch you in
the face for. It’s no wonder
she reacts to you
in a positive way when you
change. Make the most of this
opportunity. Walk dirt
roads drunk on Hennessy
with the movement of stars.
(originally published in Construction, Spring 2018)
I’ll enter our bedroom to open
my laptop where I reserve
a French five-star dinner and
yes we have kids in this dream
the universe theirs to explore
so they start by clanging pots
and pans in the sine band of
our kitchen underbelly worlds
smaller than the space we used
to enclose the first time beneath
the orange blanket hot chocolate
wafting from the kitchen slunk
into pillowcases and snug before
the sun steams yolk in the black
pan gathers its yellow around
the edges waiting patiently to
rise
(originally published in The Wire’s Dream, 2018)
Every day my girlfriend asks
if I can swim. I ask
do I smell like onions?
She says yes
you smell like you.
I want to be the garden.
She says she wants
to eat me, to push me
overboard. No, I say
and she laughs.
I tell her my new recipe,
dill and onion mac and cheese.
After eating, she says
it tastes like everything else
you’ve made.
The garbage disposal
won’t work again.
Our mouths full
of makeshift we have
no place to
spit.
(originally published in Triggerfish Critical Review, Summer 2018)
I have waited for this moment!
The ephemeral steel of Hollywood-
Grammy abs! Your sheen, an apple
in the sun! Follow me– I have photos
of dogs and yes, the videos!
I sleep on dandelions! Justin,
between satisfaction and the petals
left behind, youth wanes and
I’m following your chiseled
Davidian lips’ every move
to narrow our vast distance
in this moment! Make me immortal,
make me tangible!
Put me in your palm
like a snowflake melting
on his first spring day!
(originally published in The Wire’s Dream, 2018)
for now cheap breakable wheat is my bible okay
I’ve been in this basement for three days
etc. etc.
orange skies in the psalms of your dimples
(my throat is parched…)
it’s simple open your palms
for your mouth
you could fit needles in these holes
constellations in these holes
should’ve put those tiny strings of stars
in my cart to bide my time
instead of sacks of snacks
to fill & fill myself
until I rip open my last plastic head
dust volcanoes until my eyes bleed Sunshine red
my fingertips light & salted tiger sticks
my preacher says Jesus won’t eat Cheez-Its
I believe crumbs
lodged in teeth will return in three days
(originally published in Unlikely Stories Mark VI, Fall 2017)
I.
the overhead light is a python shining into my eyes
this office is hissing: drills, rotors, a hanging
S at the end of a passing sentence.
they have taken so many x-rays
of my mouth these past few weeks
there the infected tooth stares back
in its gray and black graveyard,
deep in its flaw
II.
the doctor numbs me with needle
puts a cloth in my mouth, a cape
to make my face a superhero.
it’s an uncomfortable placebo
makes me think of super-strength
defense as she scythes the pulp out of me
III.
the doctor says god,
this is a pulp boulder
I have been looking toward heaven
digging and scraping many silent minutes
IV.
a drill
bats squeal and fly from the cave of my tooth
V.
the assistant tag-team switches for
a different assistant
the doctor says we’re finally getting somewhere
on the radio:
♪ like a virgin. touched for the very first time ♪
VI.
the scent of bone
or blood
or gum
or healing
VII.
the assistant says she visited the chickens last week
cute as dickens
I learn chickens have no bladders
and no bone marrow
and here I hold my urine
VIII.
the doctor tells me open wide
shoving cotton in my mouth
♪ shout, shout, let it all out ♪
IX.
they’re trying to figure out the actress in Breakfast at Tiffany’s
the doctor holds a scalpel over my mouth
the name at the tip of her tongue
After an eternity I offer
Hahdrey Hehurn
I did my part
they’re proud
and there are no complications
(originally published in Off the Coast, Fall 2017)
So, so many projects to complete
before the deadline, Taurus!
How is your pressure? Blood?
Tire? Determination will drive you
to your office parking lot, and there,
in circles, you’ll run out of gas.
(originally published in Califragile, Fall 2017)