lack of grass–
a poodle shits
on sidewalk
(originally published in Ink Pantry, Spring 2020)
Short
In Oregon
I walk on redwoods,
mountains, paths
cutting into forest.
Outside the trees
I find endless fog–
the ocean, splintered wood.
The railroad has no destination here.
(originally published in The Literary Yard, Spring 2020)
Trying to Move On
I stir potatoes
in the pot
when you text.
A mashed tornado
of cheese,
milk, salt,
pepper.
The goop
spins
into sustenance
on a cold
spoon.
(originally published in Fleas on the Dog, Spring 2020)
Little Cartoon
our laughter
snorts out
sunflowers
but pushing
glasses
up the bridge
of my nose
how you
animate
the room
keeps me
alive
(originally published in Jersey Devil Press, Winter 2022)
Denuded
Naked at the lake between salamander bodies, I kiss
your face, handfuls of sunflower on my nipples.
With mountains behind me (to my surprise)
I have become a bouquet. Verdant hills
a family– a cheetah must hide in this wilderness.
I feel emerald eyes ogling me from somewhere
in space time– even in this reunion,
I want to be as naked as a cloudless sky,
as the eroded stone I stand on.
(originally published in The Sock Drawer, Fall 2020)
Poetry Break
I attempt to translate the goo in my brain into something both palatable and relatable
whilst contemplating my grim employment prospects. Zigzag, zigzag go the roads
in a city I never expected to inhabit. Pittsburgh’s hills are steep. I expect at a certain
acceleration at an erroneous angle my Ford Fiesta will slow-motion backflip and
scrape the top side metal against the gravel and I’ll drop to where I started. You
ever read Catch-22? I keep picturing the pointlessness of the flying. The missions,
day-to-day. Figure eights inside the clouds and never further. I can’t with supervisors.
Hierarchy, don’t tell me what to do. I will, though. Mop, drive, fetch, catch, good
little doggy. I can barely keep my tongue in mouth. Can barely control my saliva.
(originally published in On Loan From the Cosmos, Spring 2020)
What We Can Watch
without some satisfaction none of us will live
the dark will come back with leaden boots
we live on a screen we can watch every beat of our hearts
imagine how long our hair will curl
love tiptoes into deception
I can see the movie I made with her
we stare into the crowd with too much innocence
(originally published in Door Is A Jar, Winter 2021)
do you know these streets
I do I deaden them walking
I talk them alive in the spit
of my thoughts specks of
gravel in my brown leather
Clarks not made for distance
I say to a neighbor hello
and that’s it before I leave
for another neighborhood
Friendship park you can
move in loops and loops
around the brownish green
in view of hospital whose
restroom I use no one cares
what I do everyone is sick
I don’t care I am too my legs
burn with lethargy though
there are days I want to yell
at dogs who do nothing
wrong I want the freedom
to lick sandpaper barks
of trees and keep a butterfly
between my teeth until
something inside me says
feast or let go
(originally published in Northwest Indiana Literary Journal, Spring 2020)
The Moon
I talk about the moon
as if it’s cute but IT’S NOT
cuter than anything
sometimes I think I’m
cuter than the moon but
I’M NOT
(originally published in The Literary Yard, Spring 2020)
Antiseptic
Drink
the last beer
in the fridge.
The office
is a primordial
pool of bacteria.
(originally published in Hamline Lit Link, Summer 2020)