Driving across the B-flat of Kansas
with burnt-out headlights (mountains
over whereabouts, gone)– you, the knife,
will cut zeroes in my nose,
twist failure into void,
invest no thought in
tap, twist, snap.



(originally published in eGoPHobia, Fall 2019)

Mean Machine

The only good thing in this city
is my 1968 Coupe– long, slick, olive
green. Brakes, good. Tires–
fair. I may have worn the rubber too quickly
the way I sped through red lights after you said Jesus
would save me in these hard rains that summon
mud from yesterday, hell onto asphalt, and hiding
under the sheet you wouldn’t show me
your face anymore, said everything
turns to wine in time, but in this city there
are thousands of dry fish waiting for rain,
and you can be a kind of Jesus, you can
redeem your soul for bread.


(originally published by Eunoia Review, Fall 2016)