Look at this kingdom of garbage
trucks. A survey underneath
the 31st St. Bridge, where I spend
my horrible days collecting.
It is Friday night and there is
pressure to deliver. I told you
nothing we do here is important,
so take a deep breath. Smell
the compost of contemporary
capitalism. My blue brain
has ceased to need a function.
My winter is every man’s
desire for himself. It is waiting
for my back to give and bear
the weight of the waste:
the compacted nature of my life,
squandering, squandering,
squandering the ineffable.
(originally published in A God You Believed In - Pinhole Poetry, 2023)
work
Some Class
Several thousand dollars
to become fancy. I wish
(upon wishes) I had
a muted suit to be
a chameleon on the
A-Train. I have sweat
in my pits and hummus
on my breath and the
world is spinning
slowly. Double shift
in opinion: the first
I am blue; the second,
confused. In all aspects
I am overworked,
hungry– eating a wrench
when I should be pulling
my own teeth out.
(originally published in The Gorko Gazette, Fall 2023)
Of Passing Cars
Each night after work I leap
to new conclusions the chatter
of the world consumes me
I watch who I wanted to be
years ago materialize in the music
of passing cars some deep ache
slows in my chest I need
to relax my shoulders I am not
giving my life to the clock
now people return
to my street I need
to go inside and hide
(originally published in First Literary Review-East, Summer 2023)
Twix
If there is a bowl
of Twix at work,
I will act apathetic
when others are
around. Alone I will
bury open wrappers
tenfold in the trash.
Perhaps I have been
watching too much
true crime television,
or lived in the U.S.
too long– standing
over candy, ripping open
Twix after inadequate
Twix, I find the initial
bite of chocolate
caramel into biscuit
enough to make me
want the whole stick,
the whole candy bowl,
everything I can have
that’s for the taking,
like anything has ever
been entitled to me.
(originally published in PPP Ezine, Winter 2023)
This American Factory
Work snips years
it abducts me
from living
and the drinks are heavy
after
in my liver
my tenuous body
if I could live
in a less-consumed way
outside
with the grass
not overgrowing
my head
in the mountains
with a beach-blue
overlook
and while I’m
fantasizing
I want a bug force
field to keep
the pests away
I want to glide
over the landscape
a less-ambitious Magneto
breathing in
high-altitude sea breeze
until the stress is gone
and I deflate
into the ocean
though I don’t know
how to swim
see
even my daydreams
end with darkness
(originally published in The Wise Owl, Spring 2023)
The End
After Matt Hart
seems like a good time to say
I spent months feeling helpless
looking forward
to this indeterminate light
we’ve been dreaming about
this industry
affects people
like a natural disaster
rolling through our days
until The End
rejuvenates us
makes us hungry
for The Beginning
a road trip a flight
a movie night haven’t
had one of those
in a while a cold
drink to jolt me
alive alive
until the dead
extend a hand
to bring me back
and I reach
for it too
(originally published in Delta Poetry Review, Summer 2023)
A Deep Exhaustion
I have a deep exhaustion
when an animal puts his head
on my lap I fall
ask anyone and they will say the weekend
is gone too fast
you sleep through your dreams
the train whistles
the beating heart
of your partner next to you
asleep through the lost time you share
(originally published in Pirene’s Fountain, Summer 2024)
Temporary
I often dream of simpler times–
driving my car to a customer
with a bag full of food, and poof–
gone. Then the memory fades
in an instant. All of time
passing. Right now. Into the ether.
The clock has dropped its weary
hand a tick downward.
The other hand desperately
reaches toward the sun.
(originally published in Academy of the Heart and Mind, Spring 2023)
FWIW
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)
A Red Container
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)