Look at this kingdom of garbage
trucks. A survey underneath
the 31st St. Bridge, where I spend
my horrible days collecting.
It is Friday night and there is
pressure to deliver. I told you
nothing we do here is important,
so take a deep breath. Smell
the compost of contemporary
capitalism. My blue brain
has ceased to need a function.
My winter is every man’s
desire for himself. It is waiting
for my back to give and bear
the weight of the waste:
the compacted nature of my life,
squandering, squandering,
squandering the ineffable.
(originally published in A God You Believed In - Pinhole Poetry, 2023)
Poetry
Strangers with Appreciation
IN BOUNDLESS EXPANSE
BETWEEN JOB AND SILENCE
NOSTALGIA AND THE EVER-
LIVING PRESENT I SIT IN FRONT
OF A PROJECTOR SCREEN
COOLED BY THE WINDOW
UNIT I CAN DERIVE NO
MORE MEANING TO VIDEO
GAMES NO
it is the purpose of a stranger to dream
for me to be engaged so in his fever
your creativity is what I want
now that I don’t have the rapturous
privilege of losing myself
but haven’t I
wrestled with every single
whim every whistle
of the wind that calls for me
I answer
for a little while then reach then
ASK NO QUESTIONS
FOR ANSWERS I COULD NEVER KNOW
THE MEANING OF THE STARS NOR
MY PLACE WITHIN MY BRAIN WHERE
THE SOUL SITS
it’s sick sometimes in
how I want to be someone else???
but I look at old pictures of myself
and think he’d be so happy to see
how unrecognizable he is to himself
(originally published in confetti, Fall 2023)
Promise of Morning
broken wind through bent window
tonight estimates life long enough
to breathe sunlight
(originally published in Winamop, Winter 2023)
This Vestibule
& within this vestibule the sighing & side-glances,
demands for just-asked-for jackets, & axes dealt
to execs in their excess, & star-born nephews needing
validation; & on this thin strip of wooden walkway,
in the gaze of dead deer, a floor air bubble that shocks
& wilders passers-by who have walked upon it one
thousand times, beside the gunshots on television
(free film school for everyone!) where we have
seen passive-aggression, passing gremlins, & a red-
state journeyman who lusts for connection along-
side extras lost from fittings (if they just turned right
past the blue truck, an open door you can’t see
from here, here, where we have waited for a call
sheet for hours), & once, there was a heavy storm
& we watched a CATERING cone withstand
the rain & hail & screeching wind & we were on the
inside, too, through the glass, rooting everyone on–
yet hollered in catharsis when it tumbled down.
(originally published in Osmosis Press, Fall 2023)
The Doubt That Follows Improv Class
Projection meaning screen is blurry.
I don’t want any part of.
Correct. I ended improv
class inspecting
my anxious habits–
has it been too long?
my demons asked.
I could not
answer honestly. Walked
away and waved
to the prospective
attention of no one.
Still, when clouds
are classically beautiful
I recall the simple mistakes.
No one counts
their turns, no one
passes their
inhibitions.
I scan the sky
for a piece of absolution.
Such indelicate pertinence,
this honest-to-however-many-
times I treat myself
like a stray without looking
away.
(originally published in Yellow Mama Magazine, Fall 2024)
Shoppers
At Westside Pavilion, I watch shoppers
walk slowly to their Jubilees, carrying plastic
bags of silk and thread to the thrum of Monday.
I shop enough inside my hungry flesh, living
in my Ford, booking tiny television gigs to
replace my shoes. Sometimes, I am able to
watch myself in the lens of a softer society–
playing voyeur to my temporary belonging.
(originally published in Communicators League, Fall 2021)
Cedarville
Cycling in you stayed to ignite
electricity dark neighborhood wind zapped
on in your humid house the memory
is orange on the porch by the grandpa
scarecrow who greets all genial hearts
that bump and bleat without intention
tiredly you say we never should
have seen their home we could not
convince the world to move us
(originally published in The Gorko Gazette, Autumn 2023)
Gold Hole
mosquito in the wind I itch my heavy
soil in the little dynamite world I in-
habit the ghost of some nonsense
brioche a thunderclap stumbling
down the wedding aisle in front
of family some worlds you never
lie about but break you must
pinch the nerve that binds you
and open the gold hole to the
masses that want to help. let them.
(originally published in Bindweed Magazine, Summer 2023)
Some Class
Several thousand dollars
to become fancy. I wish
(upon wishes) I had
a muted suit to be
a chameleon on the
A-Train. I have sweat
in my pits and hummus
on my breath and the
world is spinning
slowly. Double shift
in opinion: the first
I am blue; the second,
confused. In all aspects
I am overworked,
hungry– eating a wrench
when I should be pulling
my own teeth out.
(originally published in The Gorko Gazette, Fall 2023)
Forest Song
Hide these holes from death’s dentists.
Suburban wealth I heard is best eaten
slowly. We can be the beasts we were
warned against. My mouth and ear
are hollow. Follow endless footsteps
into forgettable forests. For this I sing
a song I hope you won’t remember.
(originally published in ARZONO Poetry Annual, Summer 2023)