our short harmony brushes my teeth
flosses the ridges bending eating
at me the yellowy plaque on white
the yolks in morning how inside
we are tender sunny side up I love
the way you look at me those
runny eyes gushing off the pan
onto black-and-white tile floor
grids the burgeoning cities
in our minds cars read
the streetlights’ caution
as go, go, go . . .
(originally published in The City Key, Spring 2016)
after boyhood: curveball–
dad entered fate / gated hell.
i just killed ladybugs,
meaning no one pretended quietly.
relentless sleep. took ur valium
w/ xanax.
yes, zanax
(originally published in Down in the Dirt, Spring 2016)
(originally published in November Bees, Summer 2016)
do you believe in demons
it is an election year
which means half the populace is terrified
more than they usually are
half of us believe you can cast hell on a ballot
without holding your breath
cloaked and mortared
to cast bombs into the future
always parachutes
forthcoming days that glide like saliva
we argue until our tongues hurt
and our minds are worn from fire
that we build organically
rubbing sticks together
and the whole nation burns
cold and lifeless
what America needs
is for fewer people
to preach what America needs
and to follow the strays
who wander the streets
to see where they go
(originally published in Black Elephant Lit)
pluck stars from the heavens
twist a new celestial face
gods like the river no longer revered
oxygen the miracle
light the suffocation
rebirth me in ash
my fame was crucified
gnarled teeth stained
the slain valor of vodka
etch my name on sacred mountain
worship the white gradual chipping of paint
(originally published in November Bees, Summer 2016)
I always knew my father was allergic to bees
but it wasn’t until his obituary
I learned he was once a beekeeper.
In those days, I hear, he prayed
to his veil– only to re-emerge, hours later,
having danced with God
under every umber swarm.
He was a gifted storyteller
but it wasn’t until his stroke
at seventy-four made me listen,
when his mouth betrayed his brain.
In his final years he would repeat,
the end of bees is the end of man.
So, heaven in the soft petals
scattered in the grass.
Young violets lined his coffin.
All I wanted was to listen
to stories he told before,
details I had forgotten.
Around the cemetery,
bees still glissando
through gardens not unlike the ones
he dug into his blackened fingernails–
honey and sweat, story-
pollinated requiems, harmonies
heard in bountiful
fields of bloodroot.
(originally published in Kaaterskill Basin Literary Journal – Spring 2016)
*Nominated for the Best of the Net Anthology
For two weeks I bathed deep in the sweat of whiskey.
Submerged vocals yawed to 3am caresses together, together.
The silken bed turns itself over, its base an earthquake.
Listerine breath hurls to vortex the two years of refraining
from the holy riptide– how its arms reach
and withdraw, reach and withdraw.
You would drown in the salt of married shells,
sheathe your crackled forearm in the tide’s tattoo.
You would let it embrace and clear
your pearls. Thus begins the tide anew.
(originally published in Scarlet Leaf Review)
