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)
Growing up
Strangers with Appreciation
IN BOUNDLESS EXPANSE
BETWEEN JOB AND SILENCE
NOSTALGIA AND THE EVER-
LIVING PRESENT I SIT IN FRONT
OF A PROJECTOR SCREEN
COOLED BY THE WINDOW
UNIT I CAN DERIVE NO
MORE MEANING TO VIDEO
GAMES NO
it is the purpose of a stranger to dream
for me to be engaged so in his fever
your creativity is what I want
now that I don’t have the rapturous
privilege of losing myself
but haven’t I
wrestled with every single
whim every whistle
of the wind that calls for me
I answer
for a little while then reach then
ASK NO QUESTIONS
FOR ANSWERS I COULD NEVER KNOW
THE MEANING OF THE STARS NOR
MY PLACE WITHIN MY BRAIN WHERE
THE SOUL SITS
it’s sick sometimes in
how I want to be someone else???
but I look at old pictures of myself
and think he’d be so happy to see
how unrecognizable he is to himself
(originally published in confetti, Fall 2023)
Lunch with an Old Friend
wish I still knew how to talk about games
movies television sports
blue fish waddling onto soil of questions trudges
leaves bodyprints wet move
closer to some common thread we may yet find
yet know a fishing line in the reel of your hand
mouth brain our friendship was incorrigible
as the moon in a poem in a lit mag
super nintendo and the cement unfinished
scent of basements carpeted staircases doritos
always going down down down
affection every thump downward
like the rest of life tumbling
through deserts of thought mist sandstorm
the sun wrangles some truth out of stranded
windows translucent sunlight
shifting across the wooden table
of distance time summers
(originally published in Scarlet Leaf Review, Summer 2018)
Sunday Funday
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)
We Try on Masks at Dollar General
Which is to say we kissed many strangers
today, so many mouths without knowing.
Both of us date someone else now, though
lock eyes through pinholes of cheap latex,
despite the guises’ vacant stares– these two,
skeletons. Admire the wrinkles of bendable
skull-skin. Remember our bones– last summer,
our bodies thin crackers. Could snap first sink
of snow but we survived last winter, the fall
of our alcoholism, nearly a year passed,
still fighting. I miss the bricked patios
of our Old North bars, sloshing ice cubes
around until disappearing into fog.
Only now, with new identities,
do we walk through the door.
(originally published in Midway Journal, Spring 2018; Nominated for Best of the Net)
Future Men
boys who would be future men
squealed at new Pokemon.
mimicked moves, karate'd birds
flapping and winging and flinging
OVER NINE THOUSAND!
miles per hour
and things
eight-dollar K-B Toys
always break
blue mega man
onto metal bunk
bed swung
CLANKCLUNK
sprints'a from kitchen, lotsa surge,
hi-ye-ho bullet train
small-scale rail
the basement
digging
digging through purple bin
TREASURE! TREASURE!
homemade pogs; on one side
the cut-out cartoons
from game manuals, Zero so cool
his long blonde hair, red armor
give me his sword no
it's mine
x-buster
circular cutting
rise to heroes controlled
control was so easy
yes, yes, think of life–
death in digital terms
those boys were the masters then
the future men and their
cold basement summers
(originally published in Suburban Diaspora)
Adulthood
Adulthood is an audience-less sizzling omelet
show in a tiny comedy theater (not an age nor funeral
procession of lust lost through losing virginity to losing
virginity (sex without Olympics) after a balmy sauna
packed with strangers’ Spaghetti-o’s);
it is a profession of love to long-curdled milk
and similar to childhood:
a surfeit of waiting
(originally published in White Stag, Vol. 1, Issue #2)