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 arrived a grown child, thinking
this the place where everyone was
a star or– at least– a surfer.
I am neither. Every year
I look back and say my god! I’ve stayed
the same. For example: four billion years ago
I was a molecule in primordial soup,
spinning and swirling. Four billion years later,
I am a clerk at a convenience store, stocking lube and smiling.
Now? I am on the couch watching BoJack Horseman,
eating canned tuna and wondering if I am him.
Or– wait. I am in my car, stuck in traffic, honking
at a red light. Hell, I am driving a lemon,
barefoot in smog. This may be
a dream, but I feel cheated these days,
even if the sun shines– and it does– too brightly.
(originally published in Sunhous Review, Fall 2024)
I believe I tend to complicate
all matters, but when I strain
I remember we are one unified
being swimming between the lie
of stars as tides sweep over the city.
Quiet night– at least no one
seems to mind the oak of
my cologne. I can smell
the earth and the rain all around,
the seaweed everywhere.
The tang of time is yellow,
maybe parched, alongside
herbal tea and
cool desiccation.
I am on
the beach below her, watching clouds,
splintering sky, my eternal life
a big house just waiting to
sell to a surfer. Above, the yellow light
depends on the seasons, the turquoise
narrows the closer it gets to the blue,
coinciding with what looks like a different wave.
(originally published in In Parentheses, 2023)
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)
When you can’t leave for the forest–
bloomed flower petals on white tile
by the toilet rug. Black comb bleach
cleaner. A tendril reaches from water
glass, vine lights looming. What for
but pale wall? Crystal window. Self-
haircut grass. Small room. Small
ambition. I track my movements.
My hunter is somewhere, hiding.
(originally published in Sybil Journal, Summer 2023)
One without burdens. Without–
never mind. I’ve lost mine. I’m
brainless, more or less, the long
er I live. It feels cumulative. A
long tunnel. I’m reaching to
ward the exit. My arm can’t ex
tend enough to leave the sleeve.
(originally published in ActiveMuse, Spring 2023)
Vodkas ignite a serious conversation we sing cacophony
our mouths open machinery in the room whirs the gears
clank and then the whole dark bar lifts its legs and flies
no windows though
we perceive sudden shifts as turbulence impending
storms we move as far from as we can talk about
(originally published by Mad Swirl, Winter 2022)
Tara, the arcade was not the answer
(air hockey shots & bowling) such
fantastical surrendering with hollow
hunger & the terrapin match /
between dinosaurs Maureen was
drunk & screaming. typical
punch bowl. red & strung
with lights I lied about my blue
ice I said I did not have enough
but I drove to Taco Bell next door
& ate five soft ones texted
you I made it (though I live somewhere
different now) home if I move
how will the wind know
the difference?
(originally published in DREICH, Fall 2023)
I am no photon.
I am no electron.
I do not oscillate on a single point.
My atomic body has no own self,
its only sister the kitchen sink
who drops by
at random
or when washed with too much soap.
(originally published in Bond Street Review, Summer 2023)
Our photos hang
on nails. Crucifixion.
Quiet, now, white
walls. I know
our distance
vast (Arizona’s
lizard days,
stretched).
The sand
in my eyes.
The wind.
Violent blindness–
everyone
cannot see past
this zoo.
Kill all
the animals before
God does.
I live to
love and you love
my diatribes.
Asinine
commitment, an
x-ray into
robbery. My
body. Your
house.
(originally published in Statement Magazine, Spring 2023)