All the days of work must one day
mean something, being the bastard
children of capitalism, camouflaged
labor, fingers rough from wanting
to swim financial freedom’s waters,
a belief formed from looking sky-
ward, a cosmic agriculture, roots
ever present beneath (and above)
the stadiums, what temporal
monuments we return to
day after day.
(originally published in The Waiting Room, Summer 2023)
I am worried about the return
to normalcy the work of going
to work the work is what I am
doing what capitalists want
is your drive to drive x miles
with a red container of gas that
fuels us bright limitless stars
(originally published in Academy of the Heart and Mind, Spring 2023)
(originally published in BlazeVOX Journal, Spring 2023)
I.
After these exhausting days
who knows why I yell to no one
the things I yell on the way
to my car after work: gravel
grass and hill road buzzing
in the deepening sunset.
II.
The only relief I ever feel
is sunlight on my face
when leaving work–
the temporary confusion
of unsheathing one
unwanted part of me.
The breeze
greets me
like a once-friend,
my name
on the tip
of her tongue.
III.
Each minute– each second– beyond
when I am supposed to leave
wilts me. I look longingly out
the window mud-
stained in sunlight
I did well in the past
to ignore.
IV.
I get upset
having to spend
the remainder of
my meager self
racing
the end of day
light. I fight
my way through
traffic lights,
red in surrounding
eyes– to arrive
at my familiar
steps, already at
the foot of dawn.
V.
Morning
has that air
I like– half-
asleep possibility,
a natural neutrality,
a newness only possible
half-dreaming
beside the waving
branches.
VI.
Tonight, I spend my time
on an ice cream cone
with you. Under the full moon.
It makes my teeth hurt
but worth the work
a random hour a week
or two ago, when I was
sitting at my desk, wanting
nothing more than to come home
and see you.
(originally published in Statement Magazine, 2023)
at Tessaro’s after a long sunless
January mumblecore weekend
beginning no one to vent to
Pittsburgh bars of cig smoke
without windows I can barely
come up for air in the work
in which we say it all works
out in the end despite wanting
a cigarette having given it
up years ago just to again
(originally published in Nauseated Drive, Winter 2022)
(originally published in DREICH, Fall 2023)
what is funny about time its weight has
summer to look forward to I am stuck
in spring my watch says autumn the past
not with me may all prayers be with you
I genuflect my bucket list I never want to sky
dive I never want to die yet what handiwork
that built and builds the house this bird has
whose hours were mine I would never claim
(originally published in Bruiser Mag, Spring 2023)
On the job I steal time already
stolen from me. Taxidermied
deer on beige walls. Nature
in a protein bar. Yes,
I am consuming. No,
I am no consumer.
I push hard
but age miserably
among antlers
while day flees
into night flops
into the far future.
My family will
want bouquets
but you’ll know
what to do.
(originally published in Academy of the Heart and Mind, Spring 2023)
We made Arrested Development-esque chicken imitations
at the restaurant– bakawk, cheep-cheep, wakka wakka–
being young, I thought that was the language of love.
We always laughed across the chasm of the room
when we shut shop, squeezing soap rags into heart buckets,
wiping fresh clear streaks on mahogany tables. I vacuumed
pita crumbs and invisible dust, emptied bags thinking,
perhaps, I was on the verge of vanquishing loneliness,
that I was sprinkling zaatar on a plate of foggy shish
tawook, a taste you might return to.
(originally published in Vagabond City Lit, Spring 2023)
Cramped in that silver
nook by the kitchen
was how not to know me.
The panini-maker pressed
pitas onto various vegetables
that were consumed and
capitalized. Chickpeas
churning in the high-
grade processor (with
special red spice).
Carrots in the juicer,
bananas in the blender,
hearts on dark trays headed
to tables by the window
overlooking the snow-
plowed parking lot. I dropped
wine glasses all week
and would you agree
it was too much when
the army came in
to sweep glass
off the floor?
(originally published in Stick Figure Poetry Quarterly, Spring 2023)