When Josh lingers at the end
of the workday, I think of Stand
By Me: kids’ backs covered
in leeches in the woods–
can’t push away or peel
him off, his limb-thin branches
that walk out into the dark
parking lot and back in
to bug us, again and
again, scribbling his
footprints all over concrete
in a scuffmark infinity.
I have never seen someone
so happy to have shot someone.
He returned one
weekend from Albany,
roaring with energy, eager
to tell the whole office
that burglars stole half-
million dollar lamps
from his house, but he’s
glad they did not get it
all, and how he perched
for several hours on his
staircase, alongside the fading
sun– the story convoluted
and convulsed in his hands,
the several times I heard
it told in the hallway,
in the kitchen, showing
photos of hideous antiques.
He claims to know they would
be coming. And that he
was getting updates
on the critical person’s
condition, and the words
come bursting out of his
mushroom cloud mouth
that he would have loved.
(originally published in Toasted Cheese Literary Magazine, Spring 2024)
industry
Jesse and Andrew
were two good friends in Los Angeles,
and in last night’s dream, Andrew announces
he quit acting, though we knew him as a screenwriter,
because he found success in Ohio, and thinking back,
in reality, we were journeying toward the same adolescent
dream, green stars, and we pursued when we were heartbroken,
worn-out, reckless, and last I saw Andrew he stuffed quarters
into the jukebox at gold-lit Birds, repeating Sussudio, commenting
on every woman at the bar, and I didn’t speak up. And Jesse had
returned that day from Thailand. He was sad and I was in love.
I had a chance to see him again– last fall, New York– but he has
a kid now and I could not muster a bus, or to revisit reminiscing
the dreams we shared, what we had to wake up from
during our long, separate searches for meaning.
(originally published in Ink Pantry, Fall 2024)
The Film
Sometimes I sit at a café window
watching pedestrians pass and I think
all the people in this life I’ll never
know, these strangers in the space
we share, an unseen assistant
director setting up the scene and
critics will leave harsh reviews for lack of
dramatic irony, or subtle comedy, whatever
the previous scene sets up, or seemed to
be leading to, but the longer I move
through its runtime, the more I fear
a lack of coherence, that Chekhov’s
son never grows into what Chekhov
demands– the boy dies a few acts
later, randomly, and still the film marches
on, aiming the lens high toward some plastic
profundity with its pervasive god
and blue sky gazing through a tall
circle of trees, leaves swaying, keyboard
guitar, so frustrating, and later will be an op-ed
from the Production Coordinator that outlines
the sacrifices needed when the rented lens
shattered, dropped from a rooftop, costing a
hundred thousand, and the producers had yelled
about budget cuts yet still wanted an endless
duration, excess cast members extricated with
no follow-up but others too much, your dead
dad referenced with each hailstorm, you grow
tired of the metaphor then sit in the park
watching people pass when a past lover
from act twenty-seven enters stage left
with a pup and you wave, a stunt, restless
limb, in case she asks, which she won’t,
she’ll avoid eye contact because she is
no longer in the contract, can’t say a word
without pay, but still she will
wonder if you are the same actor,
and I’ll have to rewind a long while
to see if you are.
(originally published in A God You Believed In [Pinhole Poetry, 2023])
Rectangular Rainbow
The clouds induce trance on the drive
home from work today. White sheep pile
atop each other on a ranch in Montana
until the weight of an oncoming storm
that never comes except for a stub of
rainbow that peeks from behind far hills.
In the open stretch of highway it reveals itself
as a rectangle floating in the middle of cerulean,
squiggly lines across it, a glitch of physics
my phone cannot capture. I text you from
the middle lane– soaring eighty– because
you love rainbows. You say you walked
around our block but could not find it.
When I arrive home I am filled with unknown,
spiritual vigor. We split a red, frozen pizza
then leave for a journey following our favorite
clouds above, on high alert for the rainbow.
Guided by pink translucent clouds in blue
outlines, you ask me holistically, what are your
career goals? I can’t stop searching upward,
awestruck by the air and rare beauty
in the world, in the center of our elevated
city of bridges and transitions and roads
that fall into each other in chaos you
must understand to survive. The sunset
is somewhere and I know our clouds
obscure it. I know my career involves
sacrifice but I am chasing film’s thrill.
The whims of our uppermost winds!
I have taken you along.
(originally published in I-70 Review, Summer 2024)
The View at Work: Dump Trucks
Look at this kingdom of garbage
trucks. A survey underneath
the 31st St. Bridge, where I spend
my horrible days collecting.
It is Friday night and there is
pressure to deliver. I told you
nothing we do here is important,
so take a deep breath. Smell
the compost of contemporary
capitalism. My blue brain
has ceased to need a function.
My winter is every man’s
desire for himself. It is waiting
for my back to give and bear
the weight of the waste:
the compacted nature of my life,
squandering, squandering,
squandering the ineffable.
(originally published in A God You Believed In - Pinhole Poetry, 2023)
This Vestibule
& within this vestibule the sighing & side-glances,
demands for just-asked-for jackets, & axes dealt
to execs in their excess, & star-born nephews needing
validation; & on this thin strip of wooden walkway,
in the gaze of dead deer, a floor air bubble that shocks
& wilders passers-by who have walked upon it one
thousand times, beside the gunshots on television
(free film school for everyone!) where we have
seen passive-aggression, passing gremlins, & a red-
state journeyman who lusts for connection along-
side extras lost from fittings (if they just turned right
past the blue truck, an open door you can’t see
from here, here, where we have waited for a call
sheet for hours), & once, there was a heavy storm
& we watched a CATERING cone withstand
the rain & hail & screeching wind & we were on the
inside, too, through the glass, rooting everyone on–
yet hollered in catharsis when it tumbled down.
(originally published in Osmosis Press, Fall 2023)
The End
After Matt Hart
seems like a good time to say
I spent months feeling helpless
looking forward
to this indeterminate light
we’ve been dreaming about
this industry
affects people
like a natural disaster
rolling through our days
until The End
rejuvenates us
makes us hungry
for The Beginning
a road trip a flight
a movie night haven’t
had one of those
in a while a cold
drink to jolt me
alive alive
until the dead
extend a hand
to bring me back
and I reach
for it too
(originally published in Delta Poetry Review, Summer 2023)
Day 14 of 21 (Block A)
I saw you meditating
in the UPM’s office shades pulled
lotus on speckled carpet
you caught me wondering
if you were tranquil I felt terrible
though the door was open I was
an arrow piercing peace
that single moment I don’t know
if you ever think about it
your spotting my gaze lasted one
second at most my mind runs
reruns just tell me you’ve forgotten
in the chaos of casting hundreds
of extras for a scene canceled
by sudden rain
(originally published in The Broadkill Review, Summer 2021)
End of Week Two (Happiest Season, 1/31/20)
at Tessaro’s after a long sunless
January mumblecore weekend
beginning no one to vent to
Pittsburgh bars of cig smoke
without windows I can barely
come up for air in the work
in which we say it all works
out in the end despite wanting
a cigarette having given it
up years ago just to again
(originally published in Nauseated Drive, Winter 2022)
Chain
Cramped in that silver
nook by the kitchen
was how not to know me.
The panini-maker pressed
pitas onto various vegetables
that were consumed and
capitalized. Chickpeas
churning in the high-
grade processor (with
special red spice).
Carrots in the juicer,
bananas in the blender,
hearts on dark trays headed
to tables by the window
overlooking the snow-
plowed parking lot. I dropped
wine glasses all week
and would you agree
it was too much when
the army came in
to sweep glass
off the floor?
(originally published in Stick Figure Poetry Quarterly, Spring 2023)