God, understood here as a necessary being,
exists in my filthy shoe. The impossibility
of nonexistence shows good weather is
vague. Sunshine during workdays, storms on
weekends make me want a world of reverse
gravity. My filthy shoes, then, muck
the clean white clouds of heaven.
(originally published in A Thin Slice of Anxiety, Winter 2023)
my body is at war against my mind
the soldiers are pleased
they feed at a nearby Wendy’s
if my body the inherited god was a temple
it is no longer
and if I am the only existence I believe in
the war is warring against the concept of self
antibodies against anti-bodies
from one end of the universe
to the other
I am
I am no longer
(originally published in OVS Magazine, 2017)
I am scared to death
of death.
Not just the big death
but tiny deaths, too.
All the bulbs are burning out
in my house one by one.
In living, we accrue small darknesses.
Mirror to mirror: void
where my eyes should be.
Hung mauve towel.
Vines of black mold.
Plastic ringlets steady
stained curtain infinity.
The silver shower faucet was once
a sunflower dreamed of fluorescence.
Now, downpour, no bright
for every prayer.
Gallons of black shower
(plead with God just–).
Gobs of
gobs and gobs of hair
cling to the drain.
Genuflect in the porcelain pitter-patter.
A feedback loop of weeps.
Hot water, cold water,
no water.
(originally published in Isthmus, Winter 2016)