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)
LA
The Parking Garage Beneath Westside Pavilion
I slept beneath the mall for some time
to avoid the burden of capitalism ha!
if I could that would be glorious to
avoid the landlord hey look I am in
the parking garage what garbage
all these ads for movies I do and
do not want to see but I would
not know I did not want to see it
until seeing that is the predicament
I do not have the cash nor the time
to spend paying for rent give me
gunmetal cement walls six floors
beneath the surface where I drive
to where not even bugs venture
there I am unbound
I fly in my dreams
(originally published in Train: a poetry journal, Fall 2022)
The Spectacle of the Oscars
I can’t stand it– in LA one year
Alex King and I were invited to
an Oscars party but in the midst
of another sad singing act we left
for tacos but still stood around on
the green and red tiles watching
a muted tv anyway I think Billy
Crystal was the host that year
the gleam in his eyes dead I
walked Sunset and Vine seeing
unsharpened pencil eyes all
these wannabes myself included
I peeked in one mirror to comb
hair and breathe into glass then
outlined my name inside a star
to leave a filthy myth somewhere
(originally published in Whistling Shade, 2021)
Outside a Ralphs in San Diego
At the shore of supermarket
I wake under a white blanket
in my Ford’s backseat.
People pass, transient within
their own transactions, conquering
mundane daily fortresses.
I exist outside a system
of bees, exiled from Los Angeles.
Sunshine seeking amber
sunshine– its sweet, temporary
glow, my being unknown.
(originally published in Scapegoat Review, Winter 2022)
Silicon Valley (Season One, Episode Eight)
When you see me on screen–
with blue jacket and plastic
glasses– listening to Zach
Woods brainstorm a plan
to pivot Pied Piper into
an app that can attract
rodents– like the fairy tale,
you’d think this guy on TV
is one lucky bastard.
But you probably didn’t
notice, because you don’t
know me, and you see hundreds
of people on screen
living the dream every day.
And you can see me in season
two and the first episode
of the show, ever–
the very first scene,
during the Kid Rock
concert– on stage with a
hundred other extras, and–
at the time, I had
just moved to Los Angeles,
and the background roles
I had been cast for
resulted in me
on a projector!
My friends at home
who got used to me
no longer being able
to meet them drunk
at Highland Tavern on
Mondays were now not
completely surprised
to see me rewindable
in their living rooms.
I felt destined for great
things, marked this only
the beginning, like
everyone else chasing
dreams in the city of angels.
But all I could afford to eat
were packets of beef
ramen, boxes of blue
Kraft mac and cheese
with water instead
of milk– no butter.
Hard-boiled eggs
kept me alive
long enough
to come home
to show friends
who were getting used
to me being able to
meet them drunk at
Highland Tavern on
Mondays my favorite clip–
with blue jacket
and plastic glasses,
I listen to Zach Woods
brainstorm a plan
to pivot Pied Piper
into an app that can
attract rodents–
like the fairy tale.
(originally published in Statement Magazine, Spring 2023)
7.13.13
We covered ourselves in soot in my mom’s basement–
you told me you loved me but I had to move home
to have your heart. We dug holes in the backyard
but already too many buried bodies so I boarded
the plane, returned to L.A. to live at the foot of hills.
I said I’d visit sometime, up top, to overlook the ocean
I knew teeming with unspeakable life–
I could not say a word of it to anyone.
(originally published in Hamline Lit Link, Spring 2020)
Adjusting to a New City (Thank You for Your Calls)
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)
Blue
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)
Hive
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)
The Current
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)