I sit by the fan
this May afternoon
alive forever
in the green
of our home-
made salad
(spinach, chickpea,
yellow pepper, tahini),
sore and sweaty
from carrying air
conditioners up
steep hallway stairs.
Using the heat-
gun and pliers
I straighten
my brain’s
antenna.
Our argument
becomes static
on a tube TV
in someone
old’s living
room.
(originally published in San Antonio Review, Winter 2023)
on back porch with pounding
rain puddles amass you ask
advice an offer a hornet
nest in the gutter we invite
friends over my memory
short my throat closed to
organ tunes in harmony
answers inside aluminum
you hand me your phone
say look another malady
the dirt clogged drain
for pests to fester in
(originally published in Taj Mahal Review, Winter 2022)
on your bed was revelation a coming
to know purple paint with third-floor
view the pines and run-down houses all
strangers because we too once only
knew each other in name then your cat
nuzzled nose against my legflesh and we
sipped on beers we left on the nightstand
to finish later when the last bitter note
lingered on our tongues
(originally published in Academy of the Heart and Mind, Spring 2023)
Amber water dripping from the ceiling–
inadequacies from above. Last night I drank
a strawberry margarita & saw on your father
the face of your sister. He poked a hole in the tile
with a ballpoint pen. Asked for a hammer
nails or a screwdriver & we had none. The
rain at war with this city flooding three days &
I face temperance by drinking less & choose
games at bars we fold up at the end of each
loss then go home to watch movies because
the self grows this way forward. You study
heavy books I lay on the rock futon in our guest
room far from the tarp across our bed & the new
carpet stained from what we cannot stop. Water
follows least resistance the contractor says.
I need small emergencies to seal these gaps.
(originally published in White Wall Review, Winter 2021)
we are sitting closer
to the television in a brand
new bedroom not
that we bought a new
house rather rearranged
everything the television
Playstation mini
tables dustballs morals
we never labeled
outside obvious
corners the air
conditioning vents in the faraway
summer I hope never
comes yes I am this
amount jaded the new colorful
reflections of the TV
beside its fresh horizon
almost like the screen’s
outside where I can finally live
my real life in pixelated terms
I know I know I am
conflicted about even
the architectural oxygen the wood
was inspected man just not
by me I mean girders in the semi
shallow underground been
scrubbing raw potato skins
only still to grok the boiled
intentions steaming the
mind’s kitchen I don’t got
knives I don’t got any
memory of the chicken
carrot stew just I often
feel infinitesimal I can’t
stop filling overfilling
the pot hot water simply
abundance very thankful
for plastic bags stuffed
in the cold seam of the
world our window
won’t open
(originally published in datura, Summer 2021)
lost last night’s gold after the Adriatico’s pizza
guy gave us a tip: wait
for me to leave
strummed strings past afternoon stairs
mozzarella between our teeth hands on hips
lips and tongue
I was your favorite human for one night out of a billion
you said and said kept me a dice roll away my bedroom just
a flick of your fingers
(originally published in 8 Poems, Fall 2019)
past the corner of this house’s Kubrick architecture
on the couch a bundle of eyes
a slopping visual stain
but it’s true. my vision is blurry
I spent the walking sidewalk
grapes inside my right cheek
thinking how I want to win you.
so romantic, you
with a stranger in my house
about to
dine on the fruit of
ancient gods and I am laughing
now to have the ghost
within my walls, my green
heart long and longing
lunging out my chest
it sticks to paint
like spaghetti
(originally published in streetcake, Summer 2018)
Every night Mom drowns
in loud TV next to dusty organ
bloomed with portraits. Family’s
family, including things:
the security system greets her
when returning from the store.
The red carpet, the torn couch,
the gunky dishwasher. Coming home
from work through a sea of dark Ohio
into a reverberating house of off-white
rooms so silent the garage door screams
shut. The floors don’t creak, they wail
and faucets cry. A cabinet full
of Cabernet. A corkscrew hangs,
rusted at the hinge.
(originally published in Oyster River Pages, Summer 2018)
& when you sleep (waking
life is not cheap)
I know our love’s worth
something
out on our back patio
drinking bad wine on Tuesday
& the dog can’t decide
which side of the glass
he wants to live
on, the wild & murk
or the safe & stone.
I’m living life under
fluorescents or artificial
light, got a wallet made
of air I’m thumbing through,
somehow living & learning
despite the change
or lack of– glass
clinks on bronze floor.
I’m saying I love the sundown
& evening air, my fingers
locked in yours, unloose.
(originally published in Panoplyzine, Winter 2017)
the christmas tree represents unity meaning in this room we want each other blue
lights intertwined with pines green and lust thus we hang our ornaments
watch the tree shed its skin onto dog-dusty floor. there are hooks and angels angled
in the high-up spots you asked me to reach sharing the sangria with melting ice.
we light the darkest corner of our poorly-lit living room charlie brown
christmas piano guiding jazz strokes onto our wandering hands gliding up and down
bark needle and sharp.
(originally published in Abstract Magazine, Fall 2017)