the religiosity of longing
potatoes are my new church
long-lasting water-scrubbed love
in the oven eleven of them
I want you to count
carefully
our time remaining
provided what we want
we really want
is growing underground in vast distant fields
if we could see well enough to count
(originally published in HAD, Winter 2022)
between you both are more Picasso
Pollack than Leibovitz however
much I disengage the Oculus will never
be Pennsylvania though I have advanced
technology in my pocket (I still have
the broken faces we captured) I seek
the thin thread between real what
I wish to be real where I want to go
if time ever bends into black hole
I’ll head back home to Ohio and give
a hug to everyone I somehow love
as an alarm or Chekhov’s gun
telling you are the people I still love
in the future you will reassemble into
magazine collage and still resemble
the hummus-stained server in 2012
(originally published in Bindweed Magazine, Winter 2020)
We cruised Penn Avenue as compliant
vagabonds to the parking garage train
station to deposit/withdraw rental cars
in other people’s names. For a long time
I believed if you drove the actor’s maroon
luxury vehicle, you’d become the moon
yourself, at long last a god you believed in.
Being one who has to drive it to where it
must go, I know by now you will guide
its hand back to beneath the famous blue
bridge in the strip. You will sit at your desk
in the grainy film of your dreams and sketch
the rumblings of this world until golden hour.
The sun, then, will gift upon you ultraviolets.
(originally published in Confluence, Spring 2020)
Today, I slide on slush on my drive. Unplowed roads, slippery odometer–
morning snow surprise. Pittsburgh’s a city of hills unavoidable, and later,
waiting on a grocery pickup, I stare into the rearview mirror at the frost-
tipped pines when a knock on my window removes me from my existential
stupor. I don’t know how to interact anymore. Crank the window the wrong
way. Peppermint mocha, the years past. I bought a latte this morning but did
not know how to order it. The Dunkin teens stared, dumfounded, and it was
a foggy day like this– in which I float through the happenings– that I last
crashed my car. In Los Angeles, I flew down the dry 405, beat after
a long day in a Hollywood studio, and was amazed at the hospital light
brightness as I passed Westwood, like I could snap my fingers and time
would once again resume, while five other lanes of traffic zigged around
me with no regard to my existence. I was like a visitor to myself dragged
back into being with silent smoke pouring out the mouth of my Ford’s
hood. The front was crumpled but the SUV I slammed into appeared
untouched. The sixteen-year-old girl called her dad to ask what to do.
She took my insurance, my number, then drove off with the rest of the
world, as I stood at the side of the highway waiting for someone to
help me go home, still, to this day.
(originally published in the chapbook Count Seeds With Me (Ethel Zine & Micro-Press), Spring 2022)
-sign posted by the African Tree Grape
at Phipps Conservatory and Botanical
Gardens in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania
meaning
I love you I love you
or I did it’s not dead
I swear in my heart
there’s our little room
full of dust
your fingerprints
on the window
we’re not dead
but we’re trying
to figure this living-
together shit
and not take
our suitcases
boxes
of handwritten cards
Miami Post-Its
and the cats
oh my god the cats
litter the house with
stars we’d sweep
for trash night
on Thursday
with all the puffy
white bags
that sometimes rip
and leave grape
stems
on the sidewalk
(originally published in Eunoia Review, Winter 2020)
What simulation’s numb you ask
if I want children this time
definitive we boil Kraft mac
and cheese. I toss our meager sweet
potatoes in oil and ramble about financial
self-worth the oven nearly at four hundred
degrees. I can’t stop petting your shoulder
the ashy cat roams in the loam of our love
our newly swept hardwood the house
our home for now so limited already
steam from the inside a pressure
cooker of different timelines. What river
these converging lives to seek meaning
in the biological job postings some of us
are born to call. My dad was sixty-one
when I was born my grandfather clock
ticks nonexistent. We have gorged in all
our broken cabinets to rustle the blue
plastic grocery bag pile. I can’t stand
to live another day preoccupied.
(originally published in Flights, Summer 2021)
gorge on whoppers we’re making a movie
this bag of salmon we’re making a movie
sleeping pills we’re making a movie
thirteen hours plus we’re making a movie
I won’t eat pizza we’re making a movie
Caesar salad in the storm we’re making a movie
no one goes home we’re making a movie
watery leftovers we’re making a movie
dropkicked phones we’re making a movie
at the paper cutter we’re making a movie
beets at crafty we’re making a movie
there’s nothing to eat we’re making a movie
thousands of packages we’re making a movie
we’re making the movie Monday what will you be doing
are you going to miss us we’re making the movie
(originally published in Mad Swirl, Summer 2020)
It is eighty-two degrees in Pittsburgh and my trunk
is crammed so your DQ cake sits in the passenger seat,
moves the same speed I do in my car in this orbit
in this galaxy. There is so much matter to keep cool
in the universe, but there’s sunshine through my wind-
shield and you– I know– thaw as a passenger beside
me. I’m doing what I can: aiming all the frigid vents
that way, holding a folder to shade you. I drive fifty-
five in a thirty-five to avoid my mind entertaining a
milky flood mixed with dust, dog hair, cookie crumbs,
and lust pooling where you are, your name in icing
illegible– it’s fine, for now. Don’t freak out. I am
floating over a bridge, the sun forever taunting,
and soon I know you’ll go, in one way or another,
into the mouth of a thankful person– whether me,
trying to save you from this heat, or you, radiant
as the sun, seeing celestial bodies who– for at
least this rotation– you know revolve around you.
(originally published in Dodging the Rain, Spring 2020)
a year goes quick but it’s enough of a time shift a mind shift
to pretend we were in paradise with our friends a steaming mug
of cider I had a handle on donning a black wig forgetting
seemed the natural progression of things no masks no monsters
in our midst no guns in our field of vision truly this was
paradise sometimes it seems a risk every time we enter public
space this morning I felt there were sinister forces beyond
my control that I couldn’t blame on hangover it was in the gob
of spider ferns unfolding it was in the wind a stranger waving
to me waiting at a crosswalk America I only feel safe inside
my shadowed home doors locked curtains drawn I felt the lips
of unspeakable tragedy drawing me in for a kiss and I pulled my
mouth away to run to Netflix Mindhunter Manhunt:
Unabomber Dexter so many monsters wearing masks this
paranoia’s a fog lingering never have I wanted a dog more
just to add one layer of protection past the window’s breaking
glass the shards and sharp teeth are everywhere this life if I
knew where to look and where I know I should
(originally published in Carpe Bloom, Winter 2019)
Ripples of water
extend into days
we are wordless
with each other.
A storm breaks,
a dog whimpers.
We hear the groaning
Earth shifting
over countless hours
into the endless sea.
I’ve had enough
of windows,
where dreams
are a quick glance
over another
unfinished drink
in the middle
of the day.
(originally published in Count Seeds With Me, Spring 2022)