I bet you have
a mansion. You sell
land at true
cost– blood-
soaked
beasts,
all the kingdom
in your pocket,
the precious
metals
polished
at your feet,
hungry stars needing
forever
more. I wish
that for you– my hunger
tastes of bitter
rosemary,
the dreams
of a plot
go on through
the storm.
(originally published in Trigger Warning Magazine, Winter 2025)
And my eyeballs
are on fire.
I used to like the sound
of a brush in flames,
and this is the same
thing. The burning
beneath me,
molten soil.
Running is my prerogative,
but my heart has to be
a certain way,
not not.
(originally published in Monologging, Winter 2024)
Food being energy–
that I eat and feel sleepy
is some sick joke. God
the jester in
his birthday suit,
blowing out the
candles
in the unlit
universe,
this small corner
of it, anyway,
where
I have turned
my back
on everything.
(originally published in Taj Mahal Review, Fall 2023)
I look for the endless
tunnel highway of light
if I see the golden
triangle pointing east
painting the far wall
spilling into another bucket
you are close enough to okay
(originally published in Poetry Super Highway, Fall 2024)
Whatever power dynamic carburetor heat engine
lightning car accident awestruck hum? Sign me
off of your autographed lemons. Peach sticki-
ness on the homefront wonderwall water cooler
laughability. The job’s a job don’t make it
awkward staircase holly oxen pulling the cart
up the hill, old buffalo, the sneering stare,
the huff of whoever is there.
(originally published in Ballast Journal, Summer 2023)
the carcass hangs
someone
try one on
(originally published in Versification, Summer 2023)
the provision
the carcass
provision
the carcass
a carcass
to provide
the carcass
blaze
(originally published in Roi Fainéant, Fall 2023)
I kiss the cheek of my cat
she hums in her sputtering
engine the comfort
of our ritual she twitches
on my chest stares
deep into my eyes
our noses
sniffing
each other
truth is
her teeth
reek of yesterday
but I am trying
to rid myself
of the past
year
(originally published in The Gorko Gazette, Summer 2024)
This
gorgeous
day! I leave
my office to
join my lively colleagues– quick silence. Tense.
I say nothing, leave, and receive a text:
it wasn’t you–
PHEW– but our
buzzkill,
Will.
(originally published in Chewers by Masticadores, Summer 2024)
Sadness is a chewable tablet
in the fall. The riptide
returns with a little less
water in the hourglass
than yesterday. There is a bottle
with your name on it, a plastic
orange, pills you don’t believe in
but I believe in you and your bare-
branch will. Every year it all ends
and each time,
leaves appear again.
(originally published in Chronogram, Spring 2025)