I believe in you
with your hand
in my hand,
which forgives
who I am,
who I have been–
every sin absolved,
we clasp
in silent prayer
and respond,
really respond
to our prayers.
With your hand
in my hand
this land
is my land,
indivisible
under sheets
and gone
in the morning.
(originally published in SOFT CARTEL, 2018)
the cat purrs, content
on his own, clawing my blanket
that rests peacefully and soft.
meanwhile, I entertain fantasies
about quitting my job again–
every day, the drab walls
say nothing to me.
the squeaky chair says
too much. another paycheck
arrives, not enough to sustain
me past the day’s bills. I work
for the grim reaper, ghastly
and gray, worm-smile rotting.
there is a scythe to my head
when I sleep that I set the night
before but I can’t even sleep
long enough to meet it.
the cockroaches share my bed,
and I know they will make it
out of this alive, whether
nuclear war or work.
(originally published in EgoPHobia, Winter 2018)
Since finishing your fruit-themed chapbook
you claim to have squeezed every sour
word yet zing. You say all you wanted
was to keep in contact. Tonight we try
to unpeel these last lost months
with talking but instead halve
ourselves dry at the table. I thought
our juice would stay fresh, purify
water all that time. At least, you said,
that would have made this easier to digest.
(originally published in Ink&Nebula, Spring 2018)
I seek a way to meet heaven without living it
in my excess the money and green, the love and sex
the sexes intertwined like vines and twigs
and doesn’t faith have nice legs? the priest
would ask from afar in this tall wooden structure with
our congregation crooning a Godsong that couldn’t
bring them any closer to God but wasn’t what
we wanted the whole time each other?
in that way I’m still religious
(originally published in KAIROS, Spring 2018)
As if you could find exactly
the base of a triangle–
one long, unsure line.
I am looking for an exit
sign pointing, pointing, pointing.
Outside that red door
wilts confused leaves.
You say there’s a way
to quantify this? That
equations explain everything?
It’s 30 degrees today,
90 yesterday.
What’s autumn’s angle?
A 180-degree spin.
Math. I don’t trust it.
How Catholic school
assured me the trinity
would save me.
I’ll learn whatever
to warm myself.
(originally published in petrichor, Spring 2018)
we’ve run out of money
again so cabinets
are stacked with Kraft
mac and cheese
familiar blue and orange
taken for granted
like in photos
sunshine a steaming pot
our brighter days
we seek heat
somewhere
outside the kitchen
the water boils
and it’s twenty degrees
outside
I see wings
in the steam
rising
we have been
powder and sugar and milk
you know these basic elements
a simplification
all
we have to do is
call a food nostalgic
to love it.
(originally published in formercactus, Spring 2018)
the cat plays with dangled string no I do
thin road-painted lines
I’m reaching a destination I swear
in the low valley of desire
sticky-sweet saliva
mouth open
give me every loose thread you have
(originally published in Every Pigeon, Summer 2018)
I am frozen in a block of ice
stuck in the absolute zero
of time how it’s rushing
water slowed down into
frozen eternity I mean it’s
my birthday today yesterday
& tomorrow being young
within universe expansion
transient in desire to shift
across continents & eras
what I want is to be known
past murky ice the good parts
melted out into a messy bowl
(originally published in Visceral Uterus, Spring 2018)
I have been inside
a marketing firm
with its own basketball court.
Uninspired employees huffed
then daggered meaningless
the hoop, hoping for renewal,
but no one kept score.
I could relate:
attending Catholic school,
I found it necessary
to ask for forgiveness
in the shower.
I had come to fear
a red-fanged Satan
sporting a porn ‘stache
waiting by the mirror,
covering himself with
a towel, fork in hand–
and me, behind childhood
curtains covered in soot,
water rushing, my body
seal-like from ablution.
(originally published in Sooth Swarm Journal, Summer 2018)
I walk waiting for the clarity of nature to upend my core
having forgotten again another grand idea I had the night before
the rain-soaked sidewalk
& deep dent on a passenger door
a two-story house I think is too tall
too wet bricks and white columns
each window a translucent universe of past
raindrops & the universe everything ahead of you
out of reach past the physical
the American flag waves in the wind
black sedans drive to a hair studio
talk show hosts spit they just
spit
& my dream once was to be on television
& in Los Angeles it happened
my face on mom’s television
but otherwise forgotten
still signals invisible waves
here I am a field the scribbled wandering
eyes & a blue jay makes a home in a tree
& me in the days I become
when I look in any mirror
(originally published in Botticelli Magazine, Spring 2018)
