suck in the vacuous space
separating the lines of the
ceiling and the hard cross
of vagary carpet mites –
wave the dueling paintbrushes
until the rims break but ever
so coquettishly whisk
the centipede eyelashes –
twist the crescent mouth to hark
the worthy obeisance of
patriot songs in a way that
conducts mosquito perseverance –
patch the augered suitcase leaking
carrot water but do it so
the bullish cockroach shells
remain intact and walking –
reassure her that the future
is a flowing faucet unhinged
like the music of the Grecian
harmonica in gathered cicadas –
(originally published in Euphemism – Vol. 11, Issue 1)
the room infiltrates us / fabrics and hangers / bedroom who is this / who are you i / don’t want you / to leave / i / haze / the fog / machine whirs / the pillow / smells like morning / orange banana strawberry / smoothie sweat old / and citrus / the blender whirred / like the black drawer / pulled in and / out / the routine is / the blue / sheet draped / stained forever / the blue / digital alarm / never woke us / sit / sit / black leggings / where are you going / healthy healthy / we draw lines / the visible line / the horizon / with those smoky faraway / buildings / the end is / never coming / we cannot see it / from where we sit
(originally published in The Legendary)
Paradise is worse than this. I’ve pissed
in the golden streets of Beverly Hills.
The stars depart their private cabs,
shoes on the ground. I’ve pissed in beach sand
with the waterbirds, the full balloon
at sunrise, wind swaying. The neighborhood
has my back. I spit fish fluoride
into grass. Splotches of next-day death
in circles brown and black. Windows fog. Yeah
I’m an airplane in a cloud. Should’ve wrapped that scarf
around my neck until my head fell off. The night is
a broken refrigerator, top shelf. Tell that to the rotting
trunk sushi. Still, some spiders creep through cracks and
keep the feet and urine smells out. Bent to a backseat
sockball and time is an envelope I hand to a stranger.
How his home stinks of sweat and mildew
and old Havarti. Fiona has crank windows
and that new car smell and floating dust.
I can’t spit enough. Blame it on the vermouth.
In the morning, I floss my coal moon fingernails
with flamenco strings. Neighbors run
past but who needs pants.
Say hello to the father and his
baby in the stroller. Say hello
to the fleshy whites. Say
hello to everlasting days
of luxury where the days
don’t end, the nights never
end, again and again
the fishing rod window
cranks, to invited crows–
the feasts of mud– say
hello and wave and caw.
(originally published in Prong & Posy, Issue 2)
Los Angeles was a chance, a retreat.
The army of cars sounded like firecrackers,
The rain somehow escaped.
The hideout was flight: the highway
a drug, a prison.
California was injured– a people debris.
The mountain was a wounded relief–
the face of thunderstorms.
(originally published in 3by3by3 – October 18, 2015)
Hi, I am Rob Delaney.
I am not Rob Delaney
and he would never begin a five-minute set like that,
but before California dangled blackberries
above my granite mouth,
Rob showed us the way and the truth and the life
(John fourteen-six by the score of silent thumbs)
god, twitter fame was the only thing
that could bring us nearer gods we do not believe in
this big bang of a perpetually expanding following
we cannot fully understand
by choice I never listened to robins
conducting high-frequency symphonies
(but I did read Last Call of the Passenger Pigeon
by Daniel A. Hoyt that summer
and could form the parentheses of a whistle
enough to calculate the slow kettle of tea)
my father would sit on a pig stump
(an oak whose life he ended himself)
and watch birds fly the superhighway,
clouds like rush hour in L.A.
like some hippie saint claiming
all that is God
is not man-made
I always thought of bird-watching as a way
for the elderly to augment their loneliness
now all the young men I know
fetishize loneliness in themselves
(originally published in LEVELER – Summer 2015)
Where I lived was a quiet crescendo
of snow six months of the year
& mosquito summers wearing shorts
into the sweating night
Where I lived had piano thunderstorm concertos
jolting the elderly house’s bones
with frenetic fingers, ivory paint,
Where I lived was a lonesome walking trail
where morning chirps of blue jays went unnoticed.
Beds of acorns lined the autumn grass,
a kind of fallout for the process of aging
and the act of leaving
Always, now, in thought, it is a shoebox
of dandelions that writhe when I pet the cold cardboard–
hello, you are home, tonsils– my heart
can’t handle the hand-shaped imprints
from so far away
(originally published in Rubbertop Review – Volume VII, 2015)
Never touched her mouth.
Abandoned in the green room.
Leads me back to a twilight daze
when winding up the knowledge
would propel you into a frenzy
without ever touching lips.
I smoke her fingertip into
dark clouds and remember
the accumulating snow
which falls, now, as tiny ashes.
(originally published in Oatmeal Magazine – Issue #8, April 2015)
Why did an apple tree
grow in my backyard?
That’s where the swimming
pool was supposed to go.
I ask not for much.
A well-placed tornado, maybe.
Another plague, perchance,
to rot its every root.
Then a demon, perhaps.
Lucifer the Lumberjack,
chainsaw in hand,
could tempt the tree
with Eve, eat its fruits,
then chop it down, though
trees don’t love women
like I do.
Look, I know it’s not practical.
Jesus didn’t wear a crown of thorns
from an apple tree
but I bear a malus cross
and don’t want to give money
to a heathen
who cuts down
a tree for me.
I could do that by myself,
if I really wanted to. I really
want to buy that pool.
I’m tired of the silence.
I know it’s easier for you
to use your superpowers
to turn the tree into a Bible
that smells like a chomped-in
red delicious. If you do that
I will sue you.
(originally published in Cake & Grapes – Vol. I, Issue II)
Starlight is not equal in the petroleum sky.
Homes know the ocean
but not their owners– cliff’s edge.
Striated fireworks stake and fall,
hurriedly carted by fragile marbles.
Oil salts the earth to lust–
a red akin to blood
and romance seen in films,
romanticism violently envisioned
and burrowed for the claw
of the excavator, millionaire muck
gushed from leaking faucets.
The piping is consistent:
the toilets flush twice– to be sure.
These are where the fingerprints mingle
to create their own pulse– voyeur beats.
So fill your tank with Grey Goose.
Drink Utopia first. There is no price
for luxury but the cost in lost days–
(originally published in altered form in Little River – Issue #4)
Unease hangs on fame trees
bespeckled by drooped prop lights
as I leave Valeria in a bus
like she belongs, as if anyone belongs
anywhere, who’s to say what’s right
underneath a moon who lies
every night, concealing
lighted portions of herself, hiding
dusty cratered skin
as dark places in
of empty spaces
while mannequins remain
tucked behind glass,
wearing gold; exquisite, fit,
staring, wanting, vacant, stuck, cold
in their grim, posed smiles just beyond
(originally published in NEAT., Issue 5, September 2014)