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)
reflection
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)
House of Mirrors
in this house of mirrors look around you
all around you looks at you if you think
you are out of sight of stars remember
light itself is the mirror the stars
made you the stars own you the stars
constantly surveil you the sun
itself shines its light at you for hours
because it must know you will soon
sin though you never believed in God
the sun will whisper I am your sunshine
your only sunshine and every other
source of light will seem ninety-three
million miles away and in
no rush to reach you
(originally published in Flush Left, Winter 2023)
Today
It is too much for a person
to unpack happenings
in the space of a day.
Yet each of us do it
invariably independent
of everyone else.
Deep breath.
Look–
(originally published in The Magnolia Review, Summer 2020)
A Statement on Religion
Perhaps divinity is in devotion– pages of text
over thousands of years, eternal rambling
in the clockwork ticking the days to etch in
stone the wings I’d searched away, blind
faith in running water, erosion of the endless
nights I’d stay awake to eke out meaning.
(originally published in Penmen Review, Summer 2022)
Silicon Valley (Season One, Episode Eight)
When you see me on screen–
with blue jacket and plastic
glasses– listening to Zach
Woods brainstorm a plan
to pivot Pied Piper into
an app that can attract
rodents– like the fairy tale,
you’d think this guy on TV
is one lucky bastard.
But you probably didn’t
notice, because you don’t
know me, and you see hundreds
of people on screen
living the dream every day.
And you can see me in season
two and the first episode
of the show, ever–
the very first scene,
during the Kid Rock
concert– on stage with a
hundred other extras, and–
at the time, I had
just moved to Los Angeles,
and the background roles
I had been cast for
resulted in me
on a projector!
My friends at home
who got used to me
no longer being able
to meet them drunk
at Highland Tavern on
Mondays were now not
completely surprised
to see me rewindable
in their living rooms.
I felt destined for great
things, marked this only
the beginning, like
everyone else chasing
dreams in the city of angels.
But all I could afford to eat
were packets of beef
ramen, boxes of blue
Kraft mac and cheese
with water instead
of milk– no butter.
Hard-boiled eggs
kept me alive
long enough
to come home
to show friends
who were getting used
to me being able to
meet them drunk at
Highland Tavern on
Mondays my favorite clip–
with blue jacket
and plastic glasses,
I listen to Zach Woods
brainstorm a plan
to pivot Pied Piper
into an app that can
attract rodents–
like the fairy tale.
(originally published in Statement Magazine, Spring 2023)
Lost
It is depressing to walk outside.
No one of no ones, my formlessness
would be dazzling, if you knew to
look, a vapor in the shape of memory.
I know the sensation of a crowd.
Faraway fear of missing out
in my own backyard– back
to that old mindset. Life of
lives– tenth iteration? I have
planted some sense of evolution.
Everyone’s growing gardens,
hunched over greens
of potted soils, warning
the world of rabbits. I
chase the idea I’ll never
be settled anywhere. Love
to be alone but don’t know
what to do with my hands
when I am. Nor could I be
a surgeon. Or a fisherman–
imagine me, who can’t swim,
casting a net into the lake.
A splash of water and I’m
wishing for a wishing well.
(originally published in Pomona Valley Review, Summer 2022)
A Year
I wish it were impressive, my insistence
to gnaw at the root of what clings to me,
whatever doubt’s the day’s soup.
A kind of droning in my soul that rings
and bleats. Speaks for me when I must
be spoken for, my might in a cave.
I long sometimes for lonelier days. Too much
noise in the knock of someone else’s luck,
a hardwood for human myth.
Grant me humility to do no wrong. I had a year
to get everything right, and still I waited past
the crow’s deadline, let the line fly
recklessly into the lake.
(originally published in Nauseated Drive, Winter 2022)
Morning Reflection
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)
Mirror
You are not
sad. It is the mirror
who is sad,
transparent and flat
holding first your eyes,
then body,
then the bathroom’s.
The way black mold
sneaks high
into ceiling, where
neither of you
will do anything
about it.
(originally published in Typehouse Literary Magazine, Summer 2017)