you say go
to the lake I can’t
articulate
connection (the multitudes
slathered in fog lotion)
I have
believed in you
all our distant
foolishness outside this realm
of such irrelevant people
(originally published in Modern Literature, Spring 2020)
The wave at the shore
was followed by blood
and flame. California singes
itself, Thousand Oaks
surrounded by smoke
clouds rising
into a blanket, smothering,
like the chorus
assembling on our streets–
the world is dying,
but first our friends
and neighbors,
how this bloodshed
has been on the fringe
of our existence until
it’s not, it’s everywhere–
down the road, polluting
our hope, it seemed
everyone
we knew cast a vote
to turn the world
blue
so how do we
drown the flames?
(originally published in Capsule Stories, Fall 2020)
I rented an apartment of bees
that first year in Los Angeles
sticky buzzing day and night
stingers past the turn of knob
sunny day the bees hovering
over body encircling you
paranoid optimistic dreamer
don’t leave the hive yes stay
get stung camera rolling and
action as in stasis as in days
wrapped around you burning
August blankets dripping lust
for fame everyone plays the
game gathering in droves to
hot stove hands on surface
level interaction as in in-
action
(originally published in Chronogram, Fall 2019)
There is a universe where I am
a barista or videographer or marketer
or astronomer. I could have said no–
I skipped an interview– when you asked
if I would come to Palm Springs. When
you said you know what this means if you
go, I could have pivoted and returned
to painting my rented room in sadness.
This matters. This doesn’t. This cyclical
current. Of course we’d split, even after
you said– eating biscuits at the bakery–
the universe gives what you put in.
Yes, perhaps. But I am alive, formless,
confused as the river flowing opposite,
a flight response to a hurricane I would
never fight. I stayed in Seth’s basement
for a week after. Who walked upstream
out from it was never relevant, anyway.
(originally published in CERASUS, Summer 2021)
I had been eating like shit living
in my car, fingernails full of fungus.
We agreed to meet in Japantown
to enjoy a fancy ramen
but this would be my first
in many years
that wasn’t Maruchan
(cheap crinkly plastic,
cancer-flavored beef-dust
in a sawtooth packet)
& you must be aware the body
struggles to digest it.
During our meal,
two years since
we last talked,
the cheap ramen must have
intermingled in my stomach
with the pork-broth
real deal. I put an egg
on top for authenticity
when you told me you had
just bought Coachella tickets
for yourself & your brother
& I didn’t want to know the
price because I was living
on wages made on the days
I was lucky enough to
find work. Umami
lingered on my tongue
as we ruminated
in silence over
how vast the distance
our lives traveled
in different directions.
(originally published in Triggerfish Critical Review, Winter 2020)
All these quiet prayers
from two thousand miles away
to impact the spin of the ball–
hope that could travel
far enough to land
in the temporary nestle of a net.
(originally published in Triggerfish Critical Review, Winter 2020)
an improv game in the living
room I am screaming
someone say I am an alarm
clock or an ambulance
because my brain is hyper-
ventilating in this anxiety
of why-can’t-we-play-beer-
pong on the lawn table this is
Los Angeles and I am scared
of everything (tsunamis
falling fronds off palm trees
car accidents and commitment)
I was trying to make something
anything up in front of you
that’s how we stayed together
for eleven months of I-love-
you yelling sand in our teeth
sunburnt toes on the shore
(originally published in The Fictional Cafe, Spring 2019)
Denver’s volcanic sunset
from the parking lot
was a longing
nature
versus
Instagram
and while my traveling
resulted in a love
I cannot
recommend enough
I know it was you
who told me
it was time to leave
the ocean
when
memories
are too nostalgic
to be healthy
(originally published in The Magnolia Review, 2018)
Six months after, it was April,
and I still lived in my Ford
after moving out of your house.
I drove to Oregon, found a waterfall
to pose in front of, my familiar wool
and cerulean jacket, a white t-shirt,
my scruffy beard.
In the photograph
the stranger takes,
I smile.
The sun glints off my face.
I wonder what you’re up to
and who takes photographs
of you– is it a stranger?
Am I a stranger now?
(originally published in Pif Magazine – Summer 2018)
Let go
of Los Angeles.
Of the shore
or the dream
of water. Night
sky the black
granules. Negative
film reel. Prints
in sand. Bare
feet: where to
wander
next?