Each night after work I leap
to new conclusions the chatter
of the world consumes me
I watch who I wanted to be
years ago materialize in the music
of passing cars some deep ache
slows in my chest I need
to relax my shoulders I am not
giving my life to the clock
now people return
to my street I need
to go inside and hide
(originally published in First Literary Review-East, Summer 2023)
Went to Thursdays with
a friend who quit boot
camp but hates this bar so
left. I am good at waiting in
darkness, alone, drinking.
Other friends come but are
clung on by creepers. I Woke
Up Today by Port O’Brien
plays and suddenly we’re on
the precipice of another Ohio
summer! I high-five Rabbit
AKA High-Five Guy who is
an Eagle Scout. He buys us
shots of Crown and Coke,
then throws his glass into
the air, aiming for the roof.
But there is a hole in the roof
and the glass follow’s gravity’s
stringent rules and shatters
on the kaleidoscope everywhere.
The bald, black-eyed bouncer
points a finger and we are back
on the streets, the future still
shards in our powerful palms.
(originally published in The Beatnik Cowboy, Spring 2023)
Presently I am restless.
The television’s flickering
from the bedroom distracts
me from my mind’s reruns.
Last night, I learned to float
on my back for the first time.
It’s all about the ears, my teacher
said, but I am thinking about
her hands– how she held me.
My lower spine. Right leg.
The night before, on her couch,
our kneecaps sat a centimeter
apart, enough to receive each other’s
heat. I recalled a video in which
two water droplets in close proximity
refused to stop reaching for the other,
tirelessly wobbling until
losing strength. Perhaps we
both have been dating others for
too long, afraid of the aftermath.
In the pool, she let me float
into the purple dusk beneath
the bright, orange moon. I was
an egg unformed and drifting,
a body in transition shifting
wherever the pool dictated.
I cannot predict where shooting
stars appear in thin atmosphere air,
nor how far they’ll go, only that
they are doomed to disappear.
(originally published in Raised Brow Press, Summer 2020)
We used to be the same, used to
dance in living rooms in Grandview
houses, drunk on homemade Moscow
Mules in copper mugs, and then
you said you would no longer.
With a glass of emptied ice
water, you’d drip out the fronts
of bars without a noise.
(originally published in Live Nude Poems, Spring 2019)
another night of insomnia
the crickets never sleep
endlessly yapping on &
on about the planes & trains
& flightless birds who wander
fields endlessly & there
is an island where
that’s all that happens
it’s 5 A.M.
& this bed is an island
(originally published in The Sunlight Press, 2018)
spilled honey clings to black wires
connecting the world my lifeblood
laptop nestled in her shell safe from fingers
goldenrod shirt covers the old burns
the pinewood ashes coat my nostrils
the harsh wind blows crooked conifer to the verge
almost to fracture the window waiting
to kaleidoscope glass a body as canvas
hardwood red lust to cleanse gathering dust
rain pats the chair-infested patio drips of
laughter boomerang from slippery brick
and the blonde coughs from beyond the dark
halls of shed fur & grime
(originally published in Freshwater, Spring 2018)
As I run hot faucet water
over the head of my electric toothbrush,
Jennifer asks isn’t it better
when we brush our teeth together?
This, of course, is redundant.
I have cleaned the spit
and foam from my brush alone
through the years,
watched clean water slowly spiral
down a clog.
I have taken better care
of myself.
Flossed the plaque
between memories,
tartar of bad habits,
freshened breath
in and out of you.
These I can withstand.
Thus I answer at all.
fantasy world
castle door
sword glistening
at night
in this world
I love you nestled
on lumpy pillows
reading Tolkien
dim light
bed mirror glare
we must sell
everything
gloves
fingerprints
musty pages
grandma gave reading
buried imagination
rich with vastness
& escape
(originally published in Oddball Magazine, Summer 2017)
In darkness we find a train:
engine active, body inert.
We walk the adjacent rail’s
delineated steel, waiting for a sign.
A spotlight from the city’s purple heart
shoots starward into clear, and the train
barks at something we cannot hear.
We scamper through the brush,
our clothes and hair full of sticks–
strays rising into the cold shadow
of a home, on the hunt
for what will make us whole.
(originally published in The Piedmont Journal of Poetry and Fiction, Winter 2017)
