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)
nostalgia
Tetris
I am reading old journals, putting
pieces of my past in place–
a series of staircase Tetris shapes,
a broken board mixing L.A. palm
fronds with bad haircuts Dad
gave me, but we needed to save
money, and I was bratty. I wanted
video game anime hair but got slanted
bangs laughed at by classmates and
teachers (who would never admit they
found it funny). I knew, and still do.
Sharp laughter edged in memory. I
want to say I’ve gotten over it. Over
all of it. But I still hold the smoky
gray of Nintendo controller in both
hands, and I am trying to move the pieces
where they need to go– but I am
older and life is faster, blocks falling
into places I can no longer find them,
stacking dark spaces to the top of my
screen after these earlier, easier years.
(originally published in Bond Street Review, Winter 2021)
Early Twenties
At Giesen Haus late, we drink long
islands on empty stomachs until
we make nacho shots – chips loaded
with beans, jalapeños, cheese, the finisher
being the rest of our twenty-
two-ounce Doppelrocks. Because
the Haus is closing (we do not
know soon, for good), we
walk the blurred street to
The Basement, get another ale,
maybe two. We tweet Rob
Delaney when we decide we need
thirteen more drinks before the end.
We make another shot, the Dog Blowjob–
Raspberry, Blue Raspberry, Jameson–
IHOP at 2 AM, our waitress tells us a time
she was stuck in the snow, drunk, and a
customer paid her for sex. Cinnamon
pancakes, hash browns, we wait what feels
like forever amid endless summer now
that we are adults. 5 AM we walk back
to Giesen Haus and somehow, I drive us back
now. We cruise down Whipple to Bloom’s
hypnotic Wild, witnessing the sun attempt
to rise from the depths of night. In a few hours
I finish reading Conrad’s Heart of Darkness,
which I want to like, then watch birds
in branches with binoculars received
in the mail. I peer through all the nothingness
green. I start Siddhartha, play Skyrim, binge
Breaking Bad. Later in the week, I put in
thirty hours of restaurant work with
all the time in the world.
(originally published in Dreich Magazine, Summer 2020)
Memory Outshines the Moment
Childhood’s supposed to be a little blurry,
but phones are testing the shores of Moore’s law.
Kid, you’re gonna know every gory detail growing up:
the green facepaint. The goalposts at night. The peach wall
(since painted cerulean) the pool cue leaned against. You will
still smell the fragrance of fall in retail. The beehive lights
spattered against the backdrop of capitalism. Somehow you
still found a way to toss boomerang smiles, to pose
at Macy’s amongst the mannequins, limbless and featureless.
(originally published in Erothanatos, Summer 2021)
Lunch with an Old Friend
wish I still knew how to talk about games
movies television sports
blue fish waddling onto soil of questions trudges
leaves bodyprints wet move
closer to some common thread we may yet find
yet know a fishing line in the reel of your hand
mouth brain our friendship was incorrigible
as the moon in a poem in a lit mag
super nintendo and the cement unfinished
scent of basements carpeted staircases doritos
always going down down down
affection every thump downward
like the rest of life tumbling
through deserts of thought mist sandstorm
the sun wrangles some truth out of stranded
windows translucent sunlight
shifting across the wooden table
of distance time summers
(originally published in Scarlet Leaf Review, Summer 2018)
Homesick (Dissociation)
Tulip tree in Alaska. Cold
and wild. Rembrandt blue
Christmas lights, shepherd
pie a warmth of familiar metal
stovetop. Doorstep. Gold
beneath nothing but rusted shovel
mnemonic arms repping
dumbbells. Must be strong
in clumps of conviction. The south
says the creator God’s a yes.
Freeform jazz. Bubbled
champagne. Festivals devoted
to home. Houston before me,
Texas a pink tie knotted.
(originally published in bluepepper, Winter 2018)
Victorian Village / West Adams
Walking over paved bricks
under sunlight in January,
it is quiet enough
to hear the earth shiver
from her breath, far
from the Los Angeles heat
I grew used to– a hundred
police cars wailing down
Vermont past blurs
of fleeting sidewalks,
boarded-up businesses
adorned in graffiti,
and dead black bags
full of not-Autumn
leaves.
(originally published in Home Planet News Online, 2017)
Transient
I need new faces
clothes drawers
opening
closing
I used to find
spacious greens
county lines
my hometown
I wandered
through the smells
of mom’s scrambled eggs
faucet running
disposal clogged
with garlic
understand
I want to be
a bullet train
memory
I’ll tell my future grandkids
stop moving
opposite
of me
(originally published in Neologism Poetry Journal, Summer 2017)
*Pushcart Prize Nomination
Max’s Porch
we’re on a playground of mosquitos
finding poems about space and math
to read because his brother’s in town
and he’s an idealistic futurist
so they trade science poems
and smoke and dreams (a glass
of water the tides of Lake Erie)
I ask which Little Caesar’s location
is your favorite all time (five dollar
orange brown cardboard. gas
station lighters burning thumbs)
everyone answers the one in my hometown
and we’re 1997 sitting in a mildew basement
sketching cartoons in blue binders on greasy
carpets full of the future waiting for the future
and mallards in the pond sing all wing and trouble
hoping for something to disturb the water
so they can fly
(originally published in Pouch)
Pool Party
Yesterday we were at a pool party
attended by only a few others. It was
dog-friendly, as it was last week,
so the lone, small white dog
lapped water into his mouth
while on an inflatable raft and we
stood in silence and watched as he
drank the blue that held the specks
of fallen leaves and submerged spiders
while our beers turned warm. Last week
we were at a party in the same house
with a few of the same people but the
sun was out and I did not have to keep
wondering if you were okay, if you would
dip your feet into the clear with me and all
the people we did not know then because,
last week, a stranger in a bar did not yet
shake your body and bite you
long after you begged him not to–
no, the night before last week’s party
we danced to nineties hip-hop
inside the shadows of others until
we could not help but mine our
bodies for gold. Last week, we laughed
as the dog lapped the pool into his mouth
but watching, now, we know there are some
who force a tongue at whatever water
they see fit, how they lap and lap
until there’s nothing but a splash
of what they lapped at all.
(originally published in The Collapsar, Summer 2016)