Improv class was how
I learned to say what
I wanted to say to you–
ice became the basis
instead.
I froze on stage
into an audience of burning arms.
If limbs were currency,
I’d be rich
in dangling
inside jokes from class when
I should have let you
in on conversations we both were part of–
inches from the icebox,
our freezer.
(originally published in Rollick Magazine, Winter 2023)
We made Arrested Development-esque chicken imitations
at the restaurant– bakawk, cheep-cheep, wakka wakka–
being young, I thought that was the language of love.
We always laughed across the chasm of the room
when we shut shop, squeezing soap rags into heart buckets,
wiping fresh clear streaks on mahogany tables. I vacuumed
pita crumbs and invisible dust, emptied bags thinking,
perhaps, I was on the verge of vanquishing loneliness,
that I was sprinkling zaatar on a plate of foggy shish
tawook, a taste you might return to.
(originally published in Vagabond City Lit, Spring 2023)
I ate five scoops of Breyers chocolate-peanut butter
ice cream and still want more–
this, after two “meals” of beef-
flavored nothing noodles (Maruchan ramen)
I’m thirty (and a half)
When do I stop running
from “the good future”
I see it through the
crystal balls of rich kids’ Instagrams
Say it with me:
I AM LIVING IN THE PAST.
clap emoji
I WANT WHAT YOU HAVE.
clap emoji clap emoji
dancing girl emoji
But here’s the thing.
Earth spins so much it’s dizzying.
I’m running the opposite direction
to meet my past self but that fucker
doesn’t want to rendezvous.
The future called
and told me to put the phone down, you’re
sweating arsenic
and They were right. I needed
a shower to cleanse myself of everything
before the neighbors made a stink about my stench.
(originally published in SCAB Magazine, Summer 2020)
When the pain becomes
knives, you– bent over
by the mirror, clutching
your abdomen– straighten
your hair, put on make-
up. Beautiful people
get treated better. That’s
a fact, you said as I
drove. This is our third
ER trip in three days,
and today, finally, the
trauma team identifies
the piece of you that
needs removed. After the
diagnosis, I notice the sterile
painting on the wall.
A field, and what little
it contains. I talk–
an attempt at distraction–
imagine this being the last
piece of art a person ever
sees. Brush-stroked
delphiniums in the
grass, swaying,
the lake then light-
house that ascends
into blue. You look
for a long time.
(originally published in In Parentheses, Winter 2022)
is your volume at two
what
is
my mouth my tongue
a computer can’t play stupid
what
is
a bad
sign like your tongue itching
let me ask again
tongue itchiness cannabis
I think you want to play it again
what
should I be worried
(originally published in Spinozablue, Fall 2022)
up treacherous stairs at the end
of January to sit in the hidden
room at the back of the Tap
where we question west elm
shelves the green-lit décor
a chicken bone and Catholic
school what I have learned
is instead of being funny
just talk about triangles
hanging on white walls
the weird will happen
math emotions a geometry
like which-year-Texas-
Instrument calculator
you wrote 80085 on
was it 84 was it 83
what I learned everything
is improvisational
the drink selection
the sidewalk ice the
weather our atoms
bouncing off each
other’s atoms in
quantum uncertainty
where will this go
if we sew shut our
fervent minds and
listen to what we
don’t know next
will ever happen,
ever
(originally published in Stickman Review, Winter 2022)
At Tango there’s a half-full bucket under the urinal
yet no one wants to talk about Piss Christ at the
dinner table. It’s the eve of Christmas Eve and
you tell me my family is your family. I don’t
want to eat the bucatini anymore. The short
rib in grease is a clog the whipped ricotta
is trying to lubricate down my gullet.
*
We don’t want dessert at Grandpa’s. The
cookies are rolling stones and I can’t
mention Piss Christ. Everyone sits in
a circle and talks accomplishments.
The architect, the dancer, the lawyer.
My name is in the credits of a movie.
Who cares? No one can talk about
drowning.
*
Everyone talks about wanting Yang Ming,
but it shut down. Because of the rats and
flies and spider webs and black mold
and uncovered fruit and the workers not
washing their hands after trips to the toilet.
I want to go, too. Seems like a great place
to talk about Piss Christ.
*
On Christmas morning we open presents
and Liz mentions a chef from China she
wants to reconnect with, but his restaurant
closed. She’s not sure what part of China
he’s from, or even the spelling of the place.
This spurs talks of other defunct restaurants,
which returns us to Yang Ming. Michael
mentions the urinal at Tango with the half-
empty bucket beneath. Of course I snapped
a photograph. Of course I show everyone.
Mathew says this reminds me– what’s that
piece of art? And I respond Piss Christ!
But everyone’s thinking of Duchamp’s
Fountain, and we all take another bite
of the home-fried bacon and golden
scrambled eggs, seeped in a tradition
that will seemingly last forever.
(originally published in Harbinger Asylum, Spring 2020)
When I first saw the broom stand
upright in the room, I thought, witchcraft.
I couldn’t sleep for days after that.
Not because it tumbled and crashed
to the floor in a roar of unforeseen
thunder, but because it was thrilling
to see the way we could play with
gravitational pull. Can my chewy
be tossed across the office with
a knuckleball axis tilt at the end?
I’ve witnessed tricks, your robot-
walk into a wall, your near-miss
backflip kick to the hanging amber
lights off the ceiling. I see everything
that happens here from my suite
on the floor, which is why, one day,
when the moon is tugging the world
the right way, I’ll sneak out my pillow
into the hall, past the conference room.
When you search for me, I will stand
on two legs in the shadows, ready
to capture your reaction on camera.
(originally published in Communicators League, Fall 2021)
Bananas everywhere make me hungry.
The doormat, the neon sign, the sticker
on your Apple– I can’t help it. My
cuteness doesn’t preclude that I am part
wolf. A ruthless hunter. When I run
across the rug to your room I want you
to throw fruit on the floor just to bite off
the peels. I’ve had my eyes on inedible Ethel
the Christmas Chicken when I learned she’s
still a chicken. For once I want a sandwich.
Put me in your cart with a potato gun
at Sam’s and we’ll hold that whole
place up. As you ransack the banana stand,
I’ll loot the deli and meet you in the middle.
(originally published in Jokes Review, Summer 2020)
you stepped in dog
poop on your birthday
but still had a good birthday
we walked through windchimes
off golden sidewalks
& drank a vat of black coffee
free from a corporation
so desperate for your loyalty
all our other friends
reached into their pockets
to blow out their rewards, too
(originally published in The Daily Drunk, Winter 2021)